Poor, Broke and Off The Radar
by OptimisticNihilist
Summary: In this GTA Online story, we have Vix, a long-time resident of Los Santos down on her luck and disillusioned with her criminal career. She spends her days smoking weed and working for Simeon before finally calling an old friend and fellow criminal J for some work. Together, they find a way to sabotage the wealth of the city and potentially start the largest heist in history.
1. Livin' Life Without Luxury

Poor, Broke and Off The Radar

Chapter 1: Livin' Life Without Luxury

* * *

 **LOS SANTOS** , a shining beacon of starry-eyed opportunity, has always been a haven where alphas could profit off the labors of human suffering, where oftentimes, such individuals could get away with anything. This image can be reflected in the number of _Pisswasser_ bottles and used condoms scattered across town, the sheer number of streetwalkers (or wannabe starlets) patrolling the glimmering wrapper-covered streets of Vinewood, overlooking the expensive mansions and apartments of Rockford Hills, and the endless amount of crime that, strangely enough, seemed to be perpetrated against big businesses and startups alike.

Those who fit the bill of criminals who made the big time are often seen sporting expensive apparel and driving high-end vehicles and aircraft, flaunting their gold-plated possessions to the city, much to the amazement of the general populace.

This indeed proves that the money shows, regardless of the illicit or cosmic methods used in acquiring said currency.

This however, was not the case for Vix (better known by her handle, _coolioboolio69_ , which, tinted in an odd blue color, always appeared on her left), one of South San Andreas's worst yet veteran criminals. Fresh out of the fog-filled bays of San Fierro and coming face-to-face with Lamar, Vix came into town seeking opportunity and riches, only to find out the stakes were far too high to even get a taste of the big life, and that the people, oh the people, were beyond reprehensible and had an extremely odd idea of how "mutual benefit" works.

Sitting inside her old jade-colored _**Rhapsody**_ with a marijuana cigarette in one hand and the steering wheel on the other, she watched as three individuals clad in business suits slinging gigantic bags of green rush towards a heavily armored _**Kuruma**_ outside a _Fleeca_ branch, as the sound of the bank alarm blared loudly, scaring away the seagulls and pensioners. Imagining the smiles on their faces, Vix continued to eye on the vehicle, slowly accelerating at the same rate as the vehicle began to make its getaway. Hearing sirens in the distance, the _Kuruma_ began to pick up in speed as red-and-blues raced past her. Performing drive-by shootings against the police, the _Kuruma's_ movements slowly became more erratic as the _Rhapsody_ followed its trail, eventually culminating in a high-speed chase on the freeway. The heat surrounding the getaway vehicle became much more intense, as gunmen frantically fired back against the cops, crashing through smaller vehicles and roadblocks.

Narrowly avoiding spike strips laid across the freeway, Vix continued to trail the _Kuruma_ in its pursuit as more cruisers continued to crash and explode in the road to hell. Together with the relentless forwardness of time, the _Kuruma_ made an exit towards Little Seoul, as gunfire subsided gradually.

Home Free! One might think. These men could finally reap their rewards, with the bank robbers thinking of what they might want to do with their share.

A new car! A new apartment! A yacht! Hire an army of hookers! The band of robbers thought.

Their success, well at least for two of the men of course, was short-lived. As the vehicle finally made a stop in an alleyway, with the robbers finally taking off their ski masks. The three men rushed into three separate vehicles, with only one man bringing the entire take to the back of a _Securicar_.

Needless to say, both vehicles except for the van blew up in the distance, turning into flaming wrecks of their former selves as bills rushed out of the back doors of the _Securicar_ , laughter fading away as the van drove off into the sunset.

"Fucking idiots." Grinned Vix, taking a puff of the blunt and throwing it out of the window before driving off to another part of town.

It was just another day in Los Santos for her.

Driving back to her home, an old 70s-style house in Mirror Park which never seemed to feel the effects of gentrification, she parked her _Rhapsody_ in her driveway as she tucked her Glock inside the back of her pants. Pushing through the rusty creaks and ceiling-covered drapes untouched since the last days of Vietnam, she sat in the beanie-covered corner of her living room and turned on her television, which showed yet another rerun of the _Republican Space Rangers_. Loading up her bong, she lit up the end of it and let it take control of her, laughing at the politically-motivated yet relatable content of the cartoon in front of her.

The laughs subsided in about 20-30 minutes after the light-up, most likely due to the low potency of the weed, and Vix was back to her old, cynical and glum self. Scrolling through the contacts, she came across a picture of J, one of the only few people she could trust in this town. A scruffy blonde in his mid-20s with his signature beard and smile, J was one of those men who always seemed to carry out crimes rather successfully with Vix as a duo, despite most of them being small-time heists.

Vix gave him a call, receiving a rather enthusiastic response from the other end of the line.

"Viiiiiiiiiixen babayyyyyy! What's up, girl?"

"Enough with the theatrics, J." Smiled Vix. "Got anything on tomorrow?"

"Lemme guess, you're getting high again and watching _America's Next Top Hooker_?" Asked J inquisitively.

"Very funny, J. I could see you getting an audition in one of those episodes." Replied Vix sarcastically. "My question still stands. I'm dirt poor and I've been working with Simeon for a while, he's a dirty piece of work who pays shit. Wanna go back to doing liquor store stick-ups like back in the day?"

"Might have some work that we do again, grandma." Laughed J. "Drop by my place in that rundown beater of yours tomorrow morning, and we'll talk… and cuddle."

"I'll see you tomorrow, and as for that last bit, sweet fucking dreams." Said Vix before hanging up. That was tomorrow's plan for her, a big change from doing repossessions for Simeon.

It was already 8pm, and while Vix was tempted to go to the nearby Up-N-Atom to grab a bite, the haze in her living room was making her sleepy. Changing out and heading off into the shower, she pondered about the state of her life as water poured down on her hair like several stones coming down on her at once. She began to have thoughts about her future and plans. She was poor, broke and off the radar, but she was comfortable with her life. Doing stick-ups with J again would probably elevate the intensity of her criminal career, but life would still be the same nonetheless.

…What if did take a step forward though? That thought rushed through the locks of her brown hair. Turning her attention to the piece on the table, as water continued to rush down, she observed the condition of her firearm. The Glock was slightly rusty, and in need of some cleaning.

Maybe it was time for it to be used more extensively again.


	2. The Truck Fuck-Up

Poor, Broke and Off The Radar

Chapter 2: The Truck Fuck-Up

* * *

 **THROUGH** the grainy roads of Los Santos, the _Rhapsody_ propelled across the streets without a soft rumble, defying all traffic laws and leaving a trail of exhaust behind. The radio played reruns after reruns, with Kenny Loggins repeating the same monologue that he did the day before, playing yet another round of " _Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting_ ", again. Disheveled yet mystified, Vix wondered why radio stations in Los Santos (and Blaine County at large) never changed formats or, at the very least, change their track list to break from the sheer mundanity and repetitiveness of a road trip.

It was 10AM on a Friday in Los Santos, and Vix was about to meet an old friend.

Vix pushed on through Pillbox to Davis, finally reaching East Los Santos through a cross junction. Driving up a hill, the vomit-colored _Rhapsody_ made its stop near a Spanish-inspired house in a corner nearby a Mexican Farmer's Market, containing a small driveway with two vehicles, one an ash-colored _Huntley S_ and the other a tan _Buccaneer_ with a maroon hardtop, parked side by side.

Flicking her aviators and putting them on, Vix exited her vehicle and made her way across the street towards the patio. J, with his smile and a Logger in one hand, dressed in a wife beater and cut jeans and an ill-maintained stubble, stood against the doorway.

"You look like the protagonist of a really bad stoner film." Bantered Vix.

J opened the door, coming back at Vix with a reply.

"Says you! Not even the Vagos would wanna jack your ride, Vix! Get the fuck in!"

A dimly-lit poker-esque table with four chairs adjourned next and opposite one another, a bowl of stale tortilla chips and a flower pot containing a sunflower lay in the center as the smell of chili con carne permeated in the air. A middle-aged, tan-skinned woman with a somewhat well-maintained figure for her age sat on a sofa near the table, browsing through endless Spanish channels on the box TV, before turning her attention to the duo.

She raised her hand before flipping the bird at the duo in the dimness, a polite gesture and greeting common throughout the Greater Los Santos Metropolitan Area.

"So you finally brought a girl home, huh Javier?" Smiled the woman.

"Just an old friend, Mami! Her name is Vix! We used to work scores together!" Replied J.

"Score or no score, I am still surprised. I almost thought you were into men now, not that there's anything wrong with it! You want something to eat or drink, Vix?"

"No thanks, ma'am." Chuckled the young brunette.

"Call me Blanco, girl. I hear you wanna do something big with my _hijo_ here. If you wanna plan something, you can use the table there. Have fun now, I've got shows that need to be watching!"

Clearing the table of stale chips and empty Logger bottles, J placed the following items across it and parallel to one another; A blueprint, a Slim Jim and a portable hand drill in the center of the table.

"Our pieces are in the garage but we'll worry about that later." Said J.

Vix pressed her palms against the table, business mode kicking in immediately, as J began to speak again.

"So what's the plan Javier?"

"You know how all the rich criminals in town keep their cash in places like the Caymans and shit? Well, they gotta move it some place first before loading it offshore, and I know exactly where they keep part of this dollar bill stash. There's a warehouse in Vespucci beach that handles this thing, and its guarded by these Professional hitman-type pricks."

"Sounds risky, J. They'll kill us if they see us."

"That's where this motherfucker comes in." Replied J, Pushing the Slim Jim forward. "There's a huge armored truck just came in town near that steel foundry that can crash through anything, including the walls of the warehouse, yeah that's right, I did the math. We'll hijack this truck and we stash it some place safe before the break-in."

"And then?"

"We wait till midnight tomorrow to grab the truck from the zone to the score. Once we crash in the warehouse, **BLAM**! We waste every one of them Professionals and make out of there with the cash, and we pack it into two separate vehicles before taking it to my guy at the cleaners. Wait a few days, we split the take, 37 for you, 37 for me, 25 for the guy at the cleaners."

"Sounds _reaaaaal_ easy." Smirked Vix sarcastically. "These criminals aren't gonna start looking for folks to scalp once they realize their drug money's gone?"

"I know what you mean, Vix. These criminals may look scary, but they're actually fucking idiots." Laughed J. "They'd definitely blame it on some rival gang for doing this gig, we're practically invisible!"

"For your sake, and mine, I hope you're right. When are we gonna nick this truck?"

A smile formed on J's face.

"Right fucking now."

The pair headed into their decoy vehicle located behind the house, armed with a couple of shotguns and facial garb to conceal their identities. The vehicle was a spotless, white _Granger_ tailored just for this job, with an inconspicuous and non-traceable touch. Revving up the engines, the _Granger_ rumbled furiously and drove off into the road. The radio was tuned in to Los Santos Rock Radio once again, much to the duo's dismay.

"Christ, I think this is the fiftieth time I'm listening to fucking _Baker Street_." Sighed Vix.

"Hey, chill out girl, I've got a bunch of Weezer tapes that we can listen to. Check the glove compartment." Said J, eye still on the road. "Got some Jefferson Airplane albums in there too if you're feeling old like the hippie you are."

"Who cares man, we'll just stick to this soft rock crap. We're almost there anyway."

"How's Simeon treating you? Last we called you was talking shit about him!" Asked J, changing the subject. "Did that bald dude make you do anything stupid?"

"Stupid's one word to describe it! He's an asshole, and he nearly got me killed for a 10K repo! There were Families punks waiting for me there!"

"10K? Ha ha, you might as well start turning tricks for that kinda pay!"

"Screw you!"

As the vehicle approached the depot next to the foundry the pair concealed their faces with the garb, cocking their shotguns before exiting the vehicle. Two guards, one standing guard beside the truck and the other sitting inside the guardhouse sipping a coffee and using his smartphone.

"You take the guy over there, I take the guy in the room." Gestured J.

"Always the passive type huh?"

Leaving the Granger, Vix headed straight for the guard at the truck, who began to take notice as to what a masked young woman with a shotgun might be doing at a place like this in the middle of lunch hour.

"This area's off-limits ma'am." Commanded the guard. "That means fuck off."

"Sure it is."

Swinging the shotgun like a baseball bat, the back of the firearm clubbed the man in the side of the temple, knocking him out instantaneously as Vix heard more blunt force trauma coming from inside the guardhouse.

Dragging the unconscious guard out of sight behind a dumpster, Vix rushed up the armored truck, using the Slim Jim to break the door open, before hearing the sound of a gun cock from behind her.

"Drop the piece, bitch." Grumbled the third guard.

Like an upstanding American citizen, Vix did what she was told, throwing the shotgun on the concrete before propelling the Slim Jim like a javelin, impaling the guard through his left eye, causing blood to squirt out of it and killing him.

Nothing but shock filled her face.

"What the fuck, Vix?" Yelled J.

"Well…" Said the woman quietly, eyes wide open. "He asked me to drop my gun."

"Great job, now we'd have to kill all of them! Drag 'em inside the truck, we'll find a place to whack and bury these dudes before we stash this thing."

Removing the bloodied Slim Jim from the wound and throwing it on the side, the duo dragged the three men into the back of the truck, while thinking of a good location to perform the killings.

"Head over to the quiet part of the docks first, you tail me from behind and look out for trouble." Said Vix, picking up her shotgun and Slim Jim and breaking into the truck.

Inside the truck, Vix ran her PDA to hack into the securities of the truck, strings of confusing looking numbers covering the screen. Vix didn't know shit about any of this gizmo garble, but she was told that the software works on its own. In less than a minute, the vehicle was ready to go. Placing her right foot on the accelerator, the truck sped off, with the Granger following suit, constantly on the lookout for any suspicious-looking cops.

Taking the long route, the duo finally reached the docks at around the late afternoon. Covering their faces again, the two grabbed their shotguns and opened the back doors of the truck to the smell of coffee, piss and blood. Two very traumatized men exited the vehicle with their hands up as J dragged the dead guard out of the vehicle. The duo ushered the men to the edge of the dock, overlooking the sunset and the sounds of seagull cries.

"Y-you bastards killed Frankie." Stammered one of the guards, pointing at the dead man. "His wife was just about to give birth to their second kid."

"Sorry about that, friendo." Replied Vix.

"Look, we don't wanna kill you guys, we really don't." Said J in an almost pleading tone. "But this lady here screwed up and _accidentally_ killed Frankie there, so you guys gotta pay the price."

"Well then just shoot us you fucking maniacs!" Shouted the second guard. "That's all what you're good for, aren't you?"

Reluctantly, the duo raised their shotguns and fired, causing the two of them to fall over the edge and into the ocean. They then proceeded to drag off the body to the same fate. With that, the three men will never be found.

"Head over to the garage at Davis, we'll stash the truck there." Said J nonchalantly.

By about 7PM, the job was all set and done, but the two remained quiet for much of the journey back to the house. Greeting Blanco, Vix grabbed her stuff and prepared to head home. Turning her head back at J, she had a few words.

"So I'll meet you tomorrow at 5?"

"Sounds good." The blonde replied. "And Vix?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened today? What you saw? It never happened, you got that?"

Nodding her head in complete acknowledgement, Vix slowly headed back to her Rhapsody, driving the key into the ignition and placed her head against the steering wheel for a few minutes, completely unable to move as a cloud of numbness slowly wrapped around her.

What happened today was partly the reason why she stuck to repo gigs. She didn't like to see innocent people die. She couldn't stop thinking about the guard, or how his wife might have felt about his disappearance. No amount of money was worth this.

And then she remembered what she thought about the day before. She remembered that the American Dream was still buzzing at her doorstep, and if she were to give it all up now, she would have effectively wasted her time in this god forsaken city.

Taking a deep breath, Vix drove towards the freeway, as lights began to spark while Los Santos begins its slumber.


	3. The Meeting Act I

_Somewhere in Los Santos._

" **CLOSE** the drapes, turn off all mobile devices before turning them over, and lock the doors. Under no circumstances is anyone allowed to enter the premises."

The order was given through the thin lips of the boss, a man in all-black, arms akimbo, exhuming an aura of unfaltering dominance. He was a large, bald, imposing bearded figure of ambiguous ethnicity, eyes obscured by the darkness in the room and accompanied by three underdogs, one a woman and two men. Save for the dim lights at the hallways, the gate to the underworld was shrouded in pitch blackness.

The first executive, the Alpha, was a sharp-eyed brunette dressed in a low-cut dark purple cocktail dress, possibly of Eurasian descent. She sat closest to the boss, the tip of her cigarette flashing white in the darkness, crossing one leg over the other. The accountant of the group, she read out figures and numbers from the ledgers, creating circles of grey smoke in the air after every momentary pause.

The second, sitting right opposite the boss, hereby known as the Beta, was a stoic man of African-American heritage. Standing roughly six foot two, he was a big man, though dwarfing in comparison to the boss. A quiet man of many secrets and thoughts, he was the thinker of the group, always one step ahead of the game, predicting the outcomes even before said events began.

The third, Charlie, as we may refer to him as, a blonde British male with a perpetual grin on his face, unable to keep his mouth shut even in the best of occasions, sat in between the two other executives. The player of the group, and despite his tendencies to voice out his opinions out in the open, he had a cunning unlike no other, capable of intimidating even the most corrupt of the bigwigs.

After some time, the three executives laid documents and ledgers of different titles across the table, as the servers began to serve dark coffee in paper cups.

"I request a rundown." Bellowed the boss.

Acquiring a ledger from the table, Alpha began reading aloud.

"Los Santos 2017, close to 35,000 active units a month, $1.2 billion amassed in net profits, and at least 1530 heists happening concurrently, ranging from low-level small-market robberies at 60%, to doomsday scenario heists at about 10%."

Charlie began to snicker.

"35,000 wankers, eh? Damn smog-infested city's a hotbed for crime, surprises me that these eejits don't kill themselves already."

"Current population of Blaine County and Los Santos County?"

"7,367,466, excluding active units."

The boss picked up his cup and drank the dark fluid.

"Seems we are short of three entities. We have one that can speak… and think."

"In other words, some gobshite had learnt the altruistic power of human empathy, in LS of all places." Laughed Charlie.

"Where did this incident occur?" Said the boss.

"The west side of the port of Los Santos, gunfire heard, three men missing according to the LSPD reports, in connection to an armored van robbery."

Adjusting his collar, Beta spoke.

"I firmly believe that an investigation should happen immediately, all witnesses to be interviewed and existing ledgers reviewed."

"And a list of all active units on the database." Replied the boss. "Search for any oddities in the script."

"Affirmative." Said Alpha, blowing out more smoke.

"And you." A finger pointed dead on Charlie.

"Fuckin' me again?"

" _Get_ _ **Tempest**_ _on the line._ "


	4. Rio Grande

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 3: Rio Grande

* * *

 **MIDNIGHT** bloomed across the now-empty streets of Los Santos, the shallow, entitled mass of the daytime populace now replaced by the criminal scourge that plagued the city since its inception. The street gangs congregated in clusters, drinking Pisswasser, shooting up junk and talking about their daily exploits of murder and drug-dealing while career robbers made a killing through nighttime liquor store robberies and money-wiring schemes.

Vix and J, on the other hand, were more concerned with breaking into a warehouse with an armored car, blowing away all security within it and stealing all its contents.

Which was exactly what they did, to an extent.

Wrapping their bandannas around their faces and loading up their HK416 rifles, the pair entered the van with Vix riding shotgun, fuzzy dice on the rear-view mirror swinging side to side like a pendulum. Six hours of sleep was not enough to shake off the events of yesterday for Vix. For her, it was not the sob story that the guards shared that disturbed her, despite it being her first thought initially.

It was something else, something more cosmic in nature.

She felt a nudge on her shoulder.

"Hey Vix, you alright? You're looking a little pale, _chica_."

The brunette turned her head to face the passing streets of the City of Saints.

J, reasonably worried, began his line of inquiry.

"Still bothered by that shit with those guards? C'mon, we did what we had to do."

"Something don't feel right about that."

"How so?"

"The theft, the shootings, it just don't feel right, J." Continued Vix, inspecting her rifle. "It's like we changed the course of events permanently somehow, and I can't seem to put my finger to what it is."

Following a short pause, J snickered at the response, albeit uneasily.

"What kind of shit you been smoking, Vix? You're getting a bit on the histrionic side!"

"I ain't fucking paranoid, scumbag!" Shouted the brunette. "It's just a damn gut feeling I've been having is all."

"And what're you trying to tell me with these gut feelings of yours?"

The armored trucked swerved right, narrowly avoiding a pothole on the road.

"That they're usually right, and we might be making a big fucking mistake of some kind."

"Well, this 'mistake' is gonna make us a shit load of green, Vix. Also, who else are we gonna rip off from other than the man himself? Money in that place is acquired from criminal activities. Think of it as sticking it to him, like we're doing the common folks a favor."

"Well yeah? I don't know about that."

"Think of it this way. After this, you can start putting your shit-colored beater up for auction, 'cause you're gonna get a pink slip for a much better ride."

"…I kinda liked that car."

The armored van stopped near the back of a warehouse underneath the Elysium Fields Freeway. A large imprint of the number 6 spread across the entire wall of the otherwise unremarkable and unidentifiable structure. Three men in suits stood guard near the entrance in the front, while the back was largely unguarded. The darkness of the night meant that the two are unable to pick out any snipers that might possibly be standing around the rooftops.

"So here's the plan." Said J. "We're going in loud, crash inside with the fuckin' truck, waste any prick that gets in the way and drive straight to the money room. Take the cash, load it up and we'll get the fuck outta here."

"Isn't that a little reckless?"

"Since when were things never reckless, Vix?"

J stepped on the gas and went right for the wall, crashing it down and creating a large cloud of dust from the impact.

"Who the _fu-_ "

Men in black engaged in recreation or asleep on the job awoke from their slumber and hastily picked up their guns, only to be quickly gunned down by the woman riding shotgun. The pair got off the vehicle and proceeded to make an example of the remaining guards still alive, kicking and loyal to their jobs. Switching their rifles to full automatic, the pair fired at every last Professional still standing and shooting, glass flying and bullets richochetting off all surfaces, as more smart-dressed men fell on the ground lifeless.

The once-quiet warehouse front turned into the siege on the Alamo in less than five minutes.

J and Vix looked around and checked their surroundings after the massive firefight. Two men dead near the broken wall, crushed to death by the debris. A man in security garb and another suit shot near a vending machine, which dispensed drinks rapidly after having been shot at, and three more suits by the guard room, one of them having crashed through a window and lying on top of a coffee table, bleeding from the chest. Possibly a few guys on the second floor as well, but the two, in the ensued madness of the situation, were not certain how many.

Having searched every corner of the warehouse and convinced that every last suit was dead, J went straight for the loot, located right behind a door with a keypad, while Vix checked his six for any more bad guys who might be hiding out in an attempt to ambush them.

"I'm gonna check for the cash, you wait out here."

Whipping out a phony keycard, J placed it against the keypad, the words ' **PERMISSION GRANTED** ' spread across the LED screen.

"The wonders of counterfeit Chinese goods." Laughed J as he opened the door, only to be wrestled against the wall by another suit in hiding.

"Do you know who you're stealing from, fuckface?!" Cried the Professional, pushing a knife against J's throat, as the criminal continued to resist.

" _The fuckin' Catholic Church_?" Uttered J, struggling.

Just before the suit could reply, the sound of a pistol cocking was heard, and a bullet went right through the man's head, popping it open, covering J's face with blood, causing his body to slump over as the blond pushed the corpse back in absolute disgust.

"The hell was that about?" Frowned J.

"Was I just gonna let him slice you open?" Replied Vix, holstering her pistol.

"He was gonna tell me something, for shit's sake."

"Yeah, after he killed you, wise guy. Let's just grab the money and get outta here."

"…I'm gonna need more than just a shower after this shit."

Throwing a cloth at J, Vix took a dolly which rested near the wall and began to load up crates of cash to the armored truck, while J wiped his face of all brain matter which may have, to his misfortune, entered his eyes or mouth.

It was then Vix noticed something peculiar. A fancy-looking imprint was printed on the crate, with a sticker pasted next to it stating the amount of cash inside.

"You familiar with a company called _Rio Grande_?" Asked Vix.

"The Big River?" Replied J, throwing the cloth aside. "Since when did you give a shit about which company we're stealing from?"

"No, no. I think I've heard of this name somewhere in passing." Continued the brunette, pushing the dolly towards the back of the truck. "Before I came here, to Los Santos that is."

"Whatever, we're still gonna grab the cash anyways. Don't care if we're stealing from Satan himself. The money is ours now."

And soon enough, the two were back on the road, with strangely no one tailing them. Before they knew it, they were blowing up the armored truck and packing the green into two _Speedos_ , before taking them for laundering. Splitting the cut with the launderer, and after a brief amount of handshakes and goodbyes they were ditching their guns and Kevlar in the incinerator. The sun began to rise over the horizon, and the pair were headed for J's _Buccaneer_ , and went in as soon as they reached.

"Easiest 600 grand I've ever done, seriously. It's like those assholes _wanted_ us to take the cash." Smiled J, revving up the engine. "But fuck me if I can still taste that asshole's cranium in my mouth, it's a pretty weird taste- Vix, are you actually smiling?"

The brunette went right for it, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving her partner-in-crime a huge smooch.

"We did it." Whispered Vix, grinning like a 10-year old kid on Christmas Day.

Laughing, J returned the gesture and kissed her back.

"You bet we did."

Vix scooted over to the driver seat and laid on top of J, looking right at his smiling face, still partly coated with blood, pressing her hands against his cheeks.

"Don't you wanna at least celebrate our victory at some shithole dive bar first before we get down to it?"

Pecking J in the lips, Vix continued to smile, shaking her head.

"I think that can wait, but meanwhile, when was the last time you had sex in a car?"

J pressed her body against his.

"I forgot, but just watch the face, and my damn seat, I paid a fortune for the leather."

J looked out of the window and saw a few people walking around the streets, going about with their lives and not taking notice of what might be two criminals getting funky in a vehicle.

"Thank Christ for tinted windows, eh?"

* * *

 _Erstwhile, at the Port of Los Santos._

The black _Washington_ stopped at the edge of the port, and in walked out a middle-aged man in a suit, wearing a black cowboy hat like in the movies. The man pulled out his Desert Eagle, inspected it, checked for a bullet in the chamber before holstering it. The man walked over to the corner, and inspected the dried blood, before walking forward to where he believed they stood. Making a pair of finger guns, he pointed right at the sea, and squinted his eyes while doing so.

Turning his back to a group of three dockworkers, mingling on their break, the man came to ask.

"Do you know where I can find Henry Craw?"

"An' who you s'pposed to be, big guy?" Asked the first dockworker, giving the stink eye.

"I'm a friend of his wife, Jenna Craw?" The man replied. "Just wanna have a chat about his condition, I believe that he was friends with one of those missing security guards you read about in them papers?"

"Shit, yeah." Said the second dockworker. "We knew Frankie, we cross paths sometimes, used to work the docks before moving off to Gruppe Sechs. Henry knows more about him though, and I heard he was actually around here when the shootings happened."

"Any idea where I can find him?"

"Henry's on his off today." Said the third dockworker. "So fuck knows where he is now."

"But you can bet he gone be at Shenanigan's this evening." Continued the first dockworker. "Man's a big drinker."

The skies began to grow dark over the docks.

"Rain's a coming." Smiled the man, turning his back on the dockworkers. "A fierce tempest looms over this damned city."

"Yeah, whatever man." Said the second dockworker. "So what you gonna do, kill him?"

"No."

The man walked back to his sedan.

"But y'all need to find some shelter before the rain comes."


	5. Dead Saints

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 4: Dead Saints

* * *

 **CRUMPLED** joints, empty cans, shrine-shaped boxes of Chinese, wads of cash and the occasional porno magazine were scattered haphazardly around the worn-out, smoking Jefferson Motel room. The television, set to CNT, was rerunning some surreal small town sitcom drama from the 1990s involving a murder and a bank robbery, which somewhat mirrors the story that of the two hardened criminals slash friends-with-benefits who lay on the bed, half-barenaked at best, half-asleep listening to the perpetual whirr and chatter of the lights that shined in front of them.

"I know you did it." Said a dying Russian mobster to the agent sinisterly in the show. "In a world dominated by nothing but flashing strobes, you malfunctioned rather quickly."

This was followed by a vivid dream sequence which played on the TV, depicting a series of fast cuts, cryptic phrases, ambient noise and slow motion scenes which culminated in the show's protagonist, a FIB agent from Venturas, smashing a mobster's face in with a coffee pot, brutally maiming him while a soprano holds a high note in the background.

Underneath the sheets J was snoring like a pig, while Vix, half-fixated on the flatscreen, attempted to make conversation with her partner-in-crime.

But to be fair, it was an hour too late after midnight for anyone to hold up a decent chit-chat without seeing stars.

"Can you believe this shit used to be popular?"

Yawning and taking a swig of beer from the desk, J covered his eyes.

"...It still is, they're actually making, like, a continuation of this show set to release in two weeks, with the original cast and everything."

"To be fair though, who the fuck would watch something like this?"

"I would, dunno how shitfaced I'd be when I do though."

Changing the topic, J asked something slightly more personal.

"So you still gonna work with Simeon after this?"

"Or get chased by the cops with you, Bonnie and Clyde style? I'll stick with the former."

"Hey, you said it, not me."

"I was fucking joking, for shit's sake. I miss doing jobs like that."

"Same old angry Vix, huh? But seriously, the option's always open if you wanna go back to hitting liquor stores... or banks."

"Just one last gig I have with Simeon, then I get my money. After that I'm done with repo and then..."

"And then you should think about getting a new car. The old one looks like some freak found it and took a spin across Blaine County, set it on fire and tried to piss on the hood to take it out."

"What is it with you and my hatchback, J?"

Grabbing the remote, Vix turned off the flatscreen, plunging the room into silence.

"Well you gotta do something with that 600K."

"That being said, how the fuck did we make out with close to two million in cash without even getting heat on us?"

"Fuck knows, my contact has good information. Low risk, high gains."

"And who's this contact?"

"Some high-end call girl from Vinewood who does striptease at the Vanilla Unicorn sometimes. Gives out information like a fucking faucet, prints and maps for potential scores against companies like RON, LifeInvader, _Rio Grande._ "

Laughing and putting on her shirt, Vix headed for the table by the window and, in a less-than-subtle turn of events, J saw the business end of a Glock pointing right at his face.

"Call girls, easy money, company heists, and _Rio Grande?_ You said you didn't know them, J." Said Vix, pulling down the hammer. "You know this whole thing sounds real fucking fishy, you sure you haven't turned states yet? Cause if you did, well, this ain't gonna be a quick one."

"I tried to be nice. Knew you was gonna pull something like this, Vix." Smiled J, lighting a cigarette. "That said, you ever tried gun discipline?"

"Don't you fucking smartmouth me. You carrying a wire on you, prick-?"

Vix felt her arm stoop sideways, and felt a hard jab against her face and down onto the carpet. J, cigarette still burning across his lips, had the brunette pinned to the ground, one hand wrapped hard around her neck and the other the Glock, which pressed against her temple.

A wave of eerie nonchalance surrounded Javier, and he had the power to choose between the life and death of her partner-in-crime.

He didn't smile this time.

"Were you stoned when you called me that afternoon, Vix? Seems like you were."

Vix felt her eyes widen, as she slowly gasped for air.

"Thought so. Point is, ever since our first gig, Vix? I could tell that you were special, and you just proved that. I've worked with different classes of asshole before, and none of them did anything that matched up with what we did yesterday. That marker that most assholes have? It ain't like yours."

 _What the hell is this guy talking about?_ Thought Vix, trying to pry off the blond's hand around his neck.

"And to answer your question, no. I ain't no fucking cop. Period. Now..."

J shifted the pistol to Vix's forehead.

"Are we cool?"

Vix gave a silent nod.

"Good, because we might be onto something big soon. Meanwhile, I think it's best if we stay in touch."

Loosening his grip on Vix, J took a puff of a Redwood, blowing out a hefty amount of smoke from his nostrils and mouth, as he stood up.

"You know? Blanca gave me the same look when I told her about our job, like she suddenly remembered something."

Placing the cigarette on an ashtray, J left the Glock on study before dressing up and leaving for the door.

"See you around, Vix. And get a new haircut, Jesus."

Hearing the door slam, Vix began to cough, holding on to her neck, red and swollen from the struggle. Bracing herself up she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the Glock on the table and the burnt-out Redwood against the ashtray, processing everything, before heading for the bathroom.

"...Fuckin' prick."

* * *

 _Erstwhile at the Shenanigan's Bar._

The man stopped his vehicle in front of the bar and stepped out, entering the bar which was streaming a Feud v. 69ers game on a 60 inch flatscreen mounted on a wall across the long table where he believed Henry Craw might be at.

The 69ers were on a winning streak, beating the Feud 4-15. As the batters from Fierro continued to score home runs, men inside the bar screamed like animals, throwing beer across the floor and driving bottles against the floor.

As the man walked in he took of his black hat and hung it near the main door of the bar. He saw a group of five unscruptulous, tattooed men bearing jackets with " **The LOST M.C.** " insignia on it, with patches of angel wings and achievements sewn into them. They watched the game with deadly focus, as the man approached them. He smiled.

"You know where I can find Henry Craw?" Asked the man. "Hear he's the sort of feller that ventures in here for a few rounds of the bottle every now and then."

One of the bikers, real methed-up looking with a long beard, looked dead on at the man.

"I'm gonna give _you_ some rounds of the bottle if you don't get the fuck out of here." Said the biker. "Shut the fuck up and leave us alone, fuckface."

The man continued smiling.

"I'm gonna ask again, where's Henry Craw?"

A black biker stood up.

"Listen up, old man." He said, picking up his glass. "I'm gonna give you three seconds to leave, or you're gonna be picking up teeth from here all the way to Stab City."

The biker began his countdown, while the man did not change his demeanor.

"Do you really want this?" The man asked, still smiling.

The biker, still relentless and cold, continued counting.

"...2..."

The man leaned closer and rested his palm on his shoulder, like a priest in prayer.

"Kid. I'll ask you one last time to reconsider. Do you really want this?"

As soon as the countdown was over the man punched the biker in the face and took his glass and broke it over his temple, causing him to drop on the ground, covering his face with his hands and screaming as blood spluttered from his cheek.

Picking up a glass shard from the broken pieces he jabbed a biker sitting down in the eye and pushed it in to make sure.

The biker with the beard stood up shocked and charged at the men, only to trip and fall as another biker took over from there. He tried to land jabs against the man's face, missing at every opportunity. Punching him square in the face, the man picked up a cue from a nearby billiard table and smashed the back of head with it, knocking him out and breaking it into half.

The man proceeded to drive the broken cue into the grounded bearded biker's chest, and after a brief struggle he impaled the man's heart into the ground, as he frothed blood from his mouth. The wood splintered and snapped in the biker's chest, as his pupils diluted.

The man pulled out his handgun and shot the two wounded men and a last one sitting on the far end who attempted to pull out a Skorpion machine pistol.

"You're dead, you sick motherfucker!" Shouted a biker in the bar, during a brief moment of silence.

"Brothers!"

Turns out this was a call for arms.

The rest of the Lost in the bar drew their weapons, 75s, .38 Specials, MACs, Streetsweepers, Luparas, and were gunned down in quick succession, as dead bikers and other patrons slumped on the wood.

Firing away at everyone and reloading, the man did not break a sweat.

The bloodbath ended with three men standing in Shenanigan's; the man, another man dressed in a collar shirt huddling in a corner pleading not to be killed and finally a bartender lady, shellshocked, wide-eyed and silent.

The man, still smiling, walked over and spoke.

"Now I'm gonna go ahead and assume that she's not Henry Craw."

Turning his Desert Eagle sideways over his shoulder, he fired a round at the bartender, splattering his black clothes with blood as the woman slided downwards against the wall, knocking over liquor. The man holstered his gun afterwards.

Henry began to gasp repeatedly.

"Been lookin' all over town for you, Henry. How about you and I have a drink?" Said the man like an old friend, as he walked over to pick up two glasses and filled them up with beer.

"Don't worry, my employers made sure no law enforcement will enter these premises within the time we are in here."

He pulled Henry up to a nearby stool and made him sit.

The dockworker sweated like a whore on Sunday and only looked down.

"...I'm begging you, man. I've got a wife. I'm just a simple docksman moved in from New Elizabeth."

"Two days ago, at the docks, you saw two gunmen shoot three innocent guards who were just doing their jobs."

Henry shook his head in the affirmative, still not making eye contact.

"Now tell me, Henry. These gunmen, did they mention any names of sort, did they have any defining features?"

Henry breathed heavily.

"On...one...one of them was a woman, a-and she was br-brunette and the guy was a blond, on the border of brown..."

"Go on."

"The man said something about robbing a warehouse after shooting 'em, in the ocean, that is, I think..."

"Is that all you remember, Henry?"

"Yessir..."

A pause followed and Henry drank.

"...You gonna kill me, sir?"

"I'm not. You've done your job here. Go back home to Jenna, Henry. She's expecting you."

"How did you..."

As the man turned his back Henry yelled at him.

"Oh now HOLD ON MAN! Killing all these innocent and bad folk, asking me all these questions, just who the hell are you?!"

"You really want to know?"

Henry's response was firm.

"Yes!"

The man returned to his seat and started his sermon like a preacher on Easter.

"You want to know something about the type of world you're living in, Henry Craw? Every day you wake up in the morning, eating that half-cremated buttered toast your wife makes you every morning. You dress up, go to work lifting crates and operating cranes and all of a sudden, a maniac in dire need of a bigger hat drives his supercharged supercar into the port and shoots you in the head. Before you know it you are outside a hospital with not a single recollection of what happened. That head wound disappears, like it was never there. You take a bus back to work, and get shot, and the cycle keeps repeating itself that you never take the time to notice that perhaps the world may not be what it seems, and that a higher power might be at work."

"That's horseshit."

"Said higher powers control beings known as the units, so to speak. These beings are just regular folks like yourself, but, being under control of said higher powers, they have a propensity for violent crime, and do the world as they please. The saints are all dead, Henry. Hell, put it this way, Los Santos as we know it, is always an endless, merciless storm, and it was, and still is, simply a playground for the demented deities that reigned us."

Henry stared at the man, unable to talk.

"Those two gunmen? One of 'em's a unit, but the code doesn't match up like the regular ones, so result is, he or she ain't so stoic, if you get my meaning. He or she can connect to someone on a personal level, just as I am doing right now. Problem lies here. This means anything that we do can permanently alter your fate, because you can remember us. Frank Offerman, your friend of 20 years and has a baby on the way? He's gone for good, Henry. Everyone in this here bar too, for that matter."

"...Good God Almighty."

"And I presume you wish to know who I am? My employers are beyond the idea of higher powers, the gods of the gods, Henry. I bag renegade units like these for an eternity, friend. I'll always first try to convert them, make them see their potential and what they're capable of, have them do the kind of work I do and if that don't work, I'll kill 'em, decommissioned, and trust me, that's why I usually try to go for the former."

The man left a twenty on the table, and wore his hat, walking towards the black sedan parked in front.

"Sorry if you had to hear that, Henry. Least you could do is head home and talk to your wife."

And the man was gone.

The dockworker stared at the open door for quite some time and drank, before pouring another round, and another. He sat at the bar for two more hours and still no police came. Morning struck, and he realised that they were not coming at all.

Stepping over the corpses of the Lost, Henry walked his way out.


	6. The Slip

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 5: The Slip

* * *

 **THE** newest edition of the Los Santos Weekly, stained with cigarette dust sat on the corner of a table in the Davis house. On it was written the top story **"INTER-GANG BAR BRAWL LEADS TO MASSIVE SHOOTOUT, KILLS 21."** The brunette was working on her final repo job which took place just right at this house, and she was stiffing some middle-aged son-of-a-bitch mechanic in a professional way who was giving her a hard time.

All because he refused to pay.

"Listen, baby. I worked my ass off with them niggas downtown to get through the first month, alright? I paid my fuckin' dues." Said the mechanic, pressing the cigarette against the ashtray, crushing it and causing ash to spread apart.

"Then this shylockin' motherfucker Simeon Yeterian suddenly calls it and wants his whip back? Bullshit."

Vix turned and faced the cherry red _Dukes_ which parked right outside the mechanic's house, and turned back to the man, face looking more pissed off than a man who just realised that someone shat in his coffee in the early hours of the day.

The business look that she went for; a basic ensemble of a white shirt and the cheapest jacket from Ponsonby's paired with a pair of straight bell bottom pants, did not seem to exhume the sense of professionalism in the way she expected against the man in front of her.

She raised the briefcase between her legs and pulled out a file detailing a list of unpaid installments.

"Mr. Evans, if I may speak freely, I'm just doing my damn job here." Replied Vix, pointing at the figures for 2017. "You're long overdue for your payments for the last two months, so uh, I'm gonna need your keys."

The mechanic laughed as he took another stick from underneath his table and readied his dippo.

"Tell me, white lady. Just how the hell do you think a man of a lower income bracket such as myself can possibly scrape together a hundred keys to pay off two fuckin' months of instalments?"

The man took a puff. Swatting the smoke with her left palm, Vix spoke again.

"I don't know, and honestly, I don't care. Mr. Yeterian made it very clear about the rates you were paying when you made the rental at his place of business."

"Oh the hell he did!"

"The point is, Mr. Evans, is that you haven't paid them in a while, and under the terms and conditions in which you have abided to, have, well, they've been breached. So, I ask one last time."

The brunette reached out her right hand.

"Keys."

Gritting his teeth in anger, the mechanic reached into his inner pocket and rustled for something, as Vix subconsciously braced herself against the likelihood of things going south.

The mechanic pulled out a ring of keys and angrily tossed them across the room.

"You motherfuckers make me sick."

Closing the briefcase, Vix went over and picked the keys and left the house, as she heard the mechanic tear the sheets apart behind her.

Entering the muscle car Vix drove the key inwards causing the engine to rumble and roar as deafening garage rock music played from the subwoofers behind her.

Placing her briefcase on the passenger's seat she rested her palms on the steering wheel. Before she stepped on the pedal the driver side window shattered as she ducked in for cover.

Pressing his lips together creating a contorted face of vitriol, the mechanic emptied his Smith and Wesson double action at the _Dukes_ , hitting the side bars, the hood and shattering more windows and narrowly missing the repo chick.

Pulling the clutch back quickly Vix hit the pedal and went reverse, crashing into a parked _Glendale_ before drifting out of the Davis neighborhood as the mechanic continued to fire maniacally at her.

On the rear-view mirror Vix saw the mechanic raise his hands before stomping his foot on the ground, throwing the revolver across the road like a paper plane.

Eye on the palms of Los Santos and the road Vix went to the nearest paint shop to get her car fixed up before heading back to the dealership.

She drove right in and met her boss, laughing away with that smug smile of his.

"Ah, if it isn't my favourite employee, huh?" Greeted Simeon, putting up the forced impression of an old friend.

"I see you have brought car in, yes?"

"The money, Simeon. I need it." Said Vix, tapping on the hardtop of the _Dukes_ and leaning against it.

The Armenian recoiled at the response, but continued to smile.

"Vix, my friend." He continued. "It's always about money with you, eh?"

"I ain't fuckin' around, Simeon!" The girl leaned forward. "Just give me the cash and we're done for good, alright? This was supposed to be my last job."

Simeon's smile disappeared momentarily before being replaced with another, much more cunning grin.

"Oh, you will get payment, dear." Smiled the shyster menacingly, walking towards the _Dukes_ and peeked through the window.

"But I'd have to check car first, yes?"

The Armenian opened the door and checked for bullet holes and scratches, before wincing and frowning and finally covering his nose in disgust.

"Horrible. Just, horrible." Simeon shook his head in disapproval. "It smells like a puppy died in it."

The man turned around to face Vix.

"You get nothing."

"What?!" Squeaked Vix in a high-pitched yet soft voice.

"You get nothing, now go away! You're fired."

Vix began to burst into laughter.

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding. Really."

The brunette went around the back of the _Dukes_ , pulled out a tire iron from the trunk and raised it.

"This shit cost me close to two grand to fix."

Within mere seconds the _Dukes_ was beaten like a piñata as Vix landed the iron against the muscle car, breaking all its windows and denting the parts, chipping off the paint in the process.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY CAR, YOU CRAZY BITCH?!"

The Armenian yelled and cursed as he attempted to wrestle the brunette away from her swinging rampage on the defenceless vehicle in question.

He eventually got hold of the tire iron and had his hand latched around the girl's throat, slamming her against the hood.

It was then Vix thought of something creative.

"Help me! This man is trying to assault me!" She screamed, playing the role of a damsel in distress.

And luckily enough, another man, this time dressed in a black denim jacket and shades on, walked in to see what Simeon, or in the truer chronology of events, Vix, did.

"Lady." He asked calmly, hands inside his jacket. "What d'this shithead do to you?"

Vix played up the role and responded with puppy-dog eyes.

"...H-he smashed up my car, a-and he tried to kill me, is all!"

The man pouted.

"You like hurting women, huh asshole?"

Pulling Simeon's collar forward he landed a fist in his jaw, busting the man's teeth in and bringing him down to the ground, throwing punches after punches while Vix ran for the office.

She shuffled through the keys that Simeon left on the table and found the right one to open the safe underneath it. Racing through the illegal pink slips and phony legal documents Vix found a stash of cash which amounted to probably about 50K.

"That's for your trouble, bozo." Smiled the brunette, shoving the notes down her jacket.

Picking up a set of car keys, Vix watched the _Dominator_ in front of her light up. The car had a pitch black paintjob with gold yellow stripes that reached all the way down the hood.

Entering the vehicle, the last thing she saw was some tough guy throwing a fucked-up, shady car dealership man through the _Dukes_ front window.

Having enough of the repo business for a lifetime, she drove away and back to her house in Mirror Park.

Back home Vix braked the _Dominator_ right next to her _Rhapsody_ and stopped the engine. Walking inside the house she found a strange piece of paper in front of the door, apparently slipped in just recently.

It was a shitty-looking 50s Los Santos postcard written on it an address, and a set of instructions.

" _Meet at 121 Frost Drive, Vinewood Hills. Anytime. Ask for Turismo_."

Sighing, Vix tossed the postcard on the side and loaded up her bong.

She wanted nothing to do with that prick.

* * *

 _The next morning_ _, at the Craw Residence, Pillbox Hill._

As sunlight permeated through the rims of the curtains Jenna Craw yawned as she rubbed her eyes.

Happily married to Henry for 5 years she came to a shock when she realised that her husband was not next to her. Mystified, she checked the living room of the apartment, not a soul in sight.

"Henry?" She called.

Growing worried, the wife searched around the house and all the rooms. Ever since they got together and Henry nailed the job at the docks she knew that Henry would never leave the house without having breakfast with the missus.

Sure, Frankie's dead, and he's upset, but this wasn't right.

It was 6.30 in the A.M. and somehow the man of the house disappeared.

The sobbing soon became more audible as Jenna continued to call out his name. After much searching she finally located the man inside the guest restroom just around the entrance.

As soon as she unlocked the door she saw her husband huddling in the corner of the bathtub, completely naked and completely mortified.

Henry's Mossberg shotgun was placed not far from the bathtub, just right along the sink.

Jenna simply watched.

"...What happened, Henry?"

Henry spoke through the tears.

" _...God is evil and merciless, Jenna. I know this because I just seen it all myself."_

"Henry, you're scaring me! The hell are you talking about?"

 _"...They killed him, honey. I seen their faces, and now I seen the letters and numbers... This world ain't right."_

* * *

 _Erstwhile, at Warehouse 6, Elysium Fields Freeway._

The man stopped his vehicle in front of the abandoned warehouse and put on his hat. Going through the point of impact at the back the man went straight to the guard room, which was scattered dangerously with pieces of broken glass and fallen personal items.

Three men lay dead, two slumped over the chairs and a man lying on top of a broken coffee table, with dried blood staining his chest.

Running the surveillance footage the man replayed everything from the beginning when the truck brought down the walls to the end where the two gunmen make off with the money.

The man constantly rewinded and sped up the footage until he could get a good look of their faces, which, at that point, was sometime during the period when they broke into the storage.

The camera showed an overhead view of the situation and the man himself took a good look at the female assailant.

"Damn!" He laughed. "That's really her!"

Stopping at the exact second the man winded up the printer and faxed the still over to his mobile device, and made a copy for his own reference.

A smile formed on his face as he eyed the still.

"Didn't see you in a while, kid."


	7. The Meeting Act II

_Somewhere in Los_ _Santos._

 **PULLING** the locks inside the door, the server rushed to prepare cups of coffee for the executives at work, grinding beans of the highest caliber into an opaque solution which was then transferred to paper cups bearing the logo of their organisation.

The young server, dressed in a dark vest with an inner black suit and tie, and no more than 30 years of age, slowly made his way up to the boss, carrying a tray of three similar-looking paper cups.

"Here you go, sir." Said the young man firmly. "One of the finest espressos ever made since the days of St. Valentine, in a cup of course."

The boss, not making eye contact, took the cup from the tray and sniffing it before taking a sip, leaving no response as the young man served similar-looking cups to the other executives in the room.

The server stood by the doorway.

"Will that be all, sir?" He asked.

The boss took a sip, and made a flicking sound with his tongue while maintaining a stern form of dialogue.

"Yes."

"If there's anything-"

"Leave. Now."

Quietly, the man turned his head and pushed the locks out, briefly breaking the silence of the room, before exiting the premises, as another round of locks sounded once again.

Looking straight ahead, the boss noticed that the room was strangely much more silent than usual.

"Where's [Charlie]?"

"He's out on business, boss." Replied Beta, pressing his palms together and interlacing his fingers. "He's made all the necessary arrangements to warrant him a pass from today's meeting. Do you request his return?"

The boss placed his cup across the table.

"It will commence either way. [Alpha], give me the news."

The female executive opened a black book and crossreferenced it with a tablet showing phone logs, turning the pages and finally reaching one with a cutout page of what appeared to be a section of Elysium Island and the nearby freeway, and an unlabelled report file containing several sheets of paper and a faded still of an image.

"This just came in, we've been hit, boss." Said Alpha. "Two individuals broke into one of our warehouses, shot everyone on sight and procured all finances stored inside."

"Please elaborate."

"We have reason to believe that they are the same individuals involved with the altercation at the port."

"Tempest confirmed this." Continued Beta. "He was just there this afternoon."

"What did his investigation yield?"

"That the heist itself was loud enough to alert the men inside, but discreet enough to prevent outwards attention on our side."

Alpha slided the report forward in the boss's direction. Catching it, he slowly opened the file and removed the clips attached to the papers.

"You never took a look in any of this, at all?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I just thought it was best if you looked into it yourself before we did, boss."

Squinting his eyes, he began reading the reports carefully, not a reaction coming from him as the dead silence in the room began to turn uncanny.

"It was that rogue unit, huh?" Husked the boss.

Alpha drank from her cup.

"Handle was _coolioboolio69_. Shouldn't be too hard to track."

He soon reached the end of the report after almost ten minutes of noiseless flipping and turning, and began to inspect the surveillance camera still, still fresh and hot from the printer, carefully.

The boss inspected the features of the masked criminals, hair and eyes unobscured, it was clearly a man and a woman, but somehow, the woman looked familiar. Her eyes, her hair. She looked familiar.

Much too familiar.

The boss began to sweat, and he looked at the frame for more details, turning and rotating it over and over again, making sure he wasn't just seeing things, and the same thought simply clicked in his head like an unloaded gun.

She WAS familiar.

His eyes began to widen with fear.

What happened next was, well, uncharacteristic of the boss.

"It's her..." Mumbled the boss, crunching and shaking the still with his fists and holding it up in front of him. "It's her. It's fucking her. IT'S HER."

Alpha and Beta slowly left their seats and edged backwards against the wall, cautious of their boss's gradually erratic behavior.

The boss stood up and looked straight on the paper with large, terrified eyes as he walked around the room aimlessly, knocking over the espresso cup on his table, chanting the same phrase over and over again like some twisted Hare Krishna mantra.

The once large and imposing man of power was now reduced to a mad, rambling goon.

"No, no nononono it can't be. Sweet baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It's her, her, HER! ...YOU FUCKING BITCH, _STAY AWAY FROM ME!"_

The boss pulled out a platinum-finish 1911 concealed underneath his suit, placed it inside his mouth and did himself.

"Holy shit..."

The pistol clacking across the marble, the boss went down on his knees, bleeding from the mouth, completely glass-eyed, and collapsed backwards shortly after, smoke rushing out of his orifices. As soon as the smoke subsided the two executives moved towards the body of their dead employer.

"I'm gonna call security, you should go see what the fuck was in that picture." Ordered Beta, as he reached for a nearby phone.

While the puddle grew larger Alpha quickly snatched the still squeezed tightly in the dead man's left hand.

The still was dogeared and covered in blood, but it was legible enough. Alpha folded it open and took a glance.

It depicted one of their own caught up in a struggle with the non-unit male gunman while the woman in question aimed what appeared to be a Glock 17 pistol at the back of his head.

Placing the receiver back down, Beta returned to the table and inspected the still with his fellow executive.

"He was flipping out about the woman, right?" Asked Alpha.

"Don't we all."

Spreading out the still, Beta checked the girl in the photo.

"You know who she is?" Asked Alpha.

"Yeah..." He sighed, taking the bloody still and crushing it into a ball, throwing it right into the paper basket.

"It's-"


	8. Turismo

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 6: Turismo

* * *

 **STOPPING** his yellow _Monroe_ on the side of the road Charlie opened the door and headed straight for the landed, frosted glass-finish property beside him, the aptly named 121 Frost Drive located in the affluent Vinewood Hills. Through the translucent glass the executive could make out large congregations of silhouettes inside partying and drinking to what sounded like 90s industrial rock music. Charlie stuck a cigarette in his mouth and saw another silhouette of a woman inside undressing on top of a table and swinging her bra like a mental case.

"Fucking septics." He grumbled, lighting up his cigarette and putting on his blue-tinted aviators.

It became clear that this was a zone of debauchery disguised as a residential building.

 _Heresy_ by _Nine Inch Nails_ blared from a nearby stereo as Charlie was accosted by the call girls which stood at the entrance.

The executive walked inside, pushing away drunkards, socialites and strippers with relative ease and ignoring the loud and tasteless music until he met eyes with the owner of this property, who stood next to the minibar, drinking whiskey on the rocks and conversing with three young yet scantily-clad women. Charlie walked over and dropped his cigarette, still smoldering and burning with ash, into one of the drinks, effectively driving the women away and leaving the two men alone in the minibar.

According to the profiles at the organization the owner, simply known as Bishop, was a notorious former producer for many of Vinewood's summer flicks back in the 80s to 90s. Known for sexually harassing up-and-coming and starry-eyed individuals looking for their big break in the movies, he finally got his when in '15 where he was finally caught with his pants down with an underaged extra during production of a long-forgotten survival thriller blockbuster.

"Look who it is again." Said Bishop nonchalantly, sipping from the glass. "If it ain't Badteeth McFuckface from that corporation. What the hell are you doing here?"

"You know why I'm here, Bishop." Smiled Charlie, his blue aviators glimmering across the lights. "Came here for a little get-around as part of my business strategy. I've heard a certain individual has been making her rounds around here."

Bishop chuckled, then spat on the ground.

"Well, obviously you're not here to bring fruit, or to kill me for my past transgressions. That said we have lots of whores in this establishment, why the hell do you always wanna stick with her?"

"Where is she?"

Bishop took another sip.

"She's upstairs, the second bedroom. Just knock."

Smiling, Charlie turned around to the sight of a man pissing against the wall while wearing a Los Santos Feud mascot head mask, which was that of a stereotypical 1920s mobster, while another woman stood by and cheered.

Charlie turned around and had something to say to Bishop.

"This must be what the American Dream feels like, eh?"

The disgraced producer responded by flipping the bird, as Charlie winked back and made his way up the stairs. Stopping in front of a door labelled with the number 2 on the door frame Charlie knocked on the door hard with his fist.

There Charlie was met by a disgruntled yet somehow beautiful, mid-shoulder length auburn-haired young woman dressed in a Black Flag tee, nipples protruding from the cold, with no pants on. She ushered the executive in and quickly the two undressed down to nothing and got down to it, humping in different varieties of sexual positions and exchanged bodily fluids in all orifices, as the patrons downstairs felt the tremors coming from above in room 2. The two individuals traded kisses as Charlie slid a couple of thousand dollar bills on the armchair next to the bed, before trailing his lips down the escort's chest, a strange, primal sensation which made her moan.

Forty minutes had since elapsed since then. The executive laid against the bed, half-naked and smoking another stick, as Turismo slipped her shirt on.

"Say, Turry? Don't you ever get sick of your own name?"

"What?"

"I mean, naming yourself after a bloody sports car. That's bonafide craftsmanship and originality right there, innit?"

"Fuck you."

"I'm just taking the piss, lass. You know me, I love messing around with yanks."

"So. You here to just screw or do you have something else to say?"

Charlie reached over to his case and handed Turismo an entire file's worth of documents, labelled " **R.G. Confidential** ".

"There's an underground passage underneath Paleto Bay, home to an entire bastion of servers. These servers manage the wealth of all the criminals in this excuse for a city. Inside this is the list of security measures and positions present in that passage. Once you reach the generator room you're going to need this to acquire the funds."

Charlie pulled out a small device resembling a tiny thumb drive and passed it over.

"Risk?"

"High, obviously, it's tantamount to suicide. The place is up the arse with security, you're gonna need more than just the average bloke to break in. Hell, you might just need God."

"…I'll bear that in mind."

Turismo unveiled a secret compartment just underneath the bed, which was a sliding cabinet that housed a safe. Pressing a few numbers on the keypad she opened it and placed the file and the device inside, before closing it again.

"I did you a favor, and now you're gonna do the same." Said Charlie.

The executive pulled out an image of a person dubbed ' **The Acid Man** '. On the mugshot depicted a man no older than Charlie himself, a smiling individual with a moustache and a receding hairline, roughly six foot tall, and a tattoo of the swastika just above his right eye and another reading ' **The South Will Rise Again** ' across his neck. The man, a self-proclaimed white supremacist and Confederate sympathiser, was a contract killer who, ironically enough, worked for the Triads and the Mexican cartel in passing, and often disposes his bodies through the use of different types of acid, hence the name.

"You know who this lad is?"

"He's one of my regulars." Said Turismo, eyeing on the mugshot. "He usually stuffs his face at some chink place Downtown."

The executive snorted at the thought in amusement as Turismo scribbled the address on a piece of paper and handed it over.

"Why the fuck would you need to look for him?"

Charlie dressed up in his suit and brought up his case.

"Wanker owes me 30 grand." Chuckled Charlie. "Him and I are going to have a word."

The executive reached the door and waved back at the escort, not looking back.

"I'll keep in touch, Turry."

* * *

 _Simultaneously, at the Galileo Observatory._

"I'm telling you, with the boss dead, there's a void that's going to be filled. Think about it, while we have the chance, we'll just make off with whatever cash that we can get, and we'll get away from LS forever."

"Yeah, sure, and have the entirety of Rio Grande after our asses, how is that gonna work out?"

"They're not going to be a problem. The way we're going to do it, everything would look above board for us, I guarantee it."

"What about Ulrika? You told me how dangerous she is! Don't you think she's going to come for us too?"

Pressing his hands along the railings Beta had the spectacular view of the Los Santos skyline just at his fingertips. Shades of blue, orange and red dominated the skies as red and white lights began to spark up across the horizon, the smog of the city hovering above it like an urban cosmos. Alpha stood behind him, leaning against the railings, worry penetrating through her every fiber.

Two vehicles, a carbon black _Sentinel XS_ and a pearl white _Schafter V12_ rumbled behind the two executives, which rivalled the whirling gust of the winds of the closing evening.

"You know, I was just on the phone with Tempest just this morning." Said Beta, touching around his jawline. "He told me that Ulrika's not a problem."

"How so?"

"According to him, after the events back at Vice in '88, they created a new personality for her, and rewrote the code, tweaked some bugs."

The man faced Alpha.

"She's docile, and submissive now, only capable of engaging in heists given to most units and, you want to hear this?"

"Enlighten me."

Beta stifled a laugh.

"She hits the blunt all day. Hell, she doesn't even remember her own damn name, let alone her past, and future. She's harmless. Ulrika's dormant and buried deep down in her code."

Raising an eyebrow, Alpha replied.

"I think that's the issue here. Her personality is still intact." The woman continued. "And look at what happened down at the docks and at warehouse 6! Don't you think that it's a sign that her personality's coming back together?"

"About that…"

Beta walked towards his _Sentinel_ and rested his palm on the hardtop, as the female executive followed suit.

"Tempest says he'll deal with it personally, so, she's the least of our concerns. Meanwhile, let's talk about that plan…"

After the two talked Beta went inside his sedan and rolled the window down and exchanged looks with his companion.

"I'm gonna head off to Fleeca to get some cash first, see you tomorrow." Said Alpha.

"Likewise."

With that, the two executives went their separate ways on the road out of the observatory, as Alpha set her sights on the nearest Fleeca branch on the GPS.

Arriving just before seven she left her vehicle and took her number from the machine. She stood and waited near one of the pillars of the bank for her number to finally be called out as she began to think about the plan.

And to think they were going to screw Charlie over for this.

As soon as her number and name were announced a group of masked men busted through the front doors, armed to the teeth with professional weaponry and wearing Kevlar.

Loading their guns, not a single warning was made, and the robbers opened fire at the crowd.

* * *

 _Erstwhile, at Blanca's, East Los Santos._

Placing the coffee pot on the table, Blanca poured the men hot, piping black coffee straight from the grinder. Three men dressed in different shades of yellow nodded their heads as a sign of respect for the oldest member in the house, before raising their cups and drinking them.

Quechua, the man dressed in a dark yellow jersey with the LS Pounders logo on it who sat opposite the mother of one, was the ringleader of a local chapter of Vagos. A ruthless man of considerable power and an ambitious one at that, he had his feet sunk in all avenues of crime ranging from fraud and extortion to the more undesirable drug dealing and human trafficking.

He was accompanied by two of his enforcers.

Cinco, who stood by his right, was ambitious in his own right, yet shared a common interest for spilling human blood. A bald, unassuming man, he stood stoically, shades on, without saying a word. The man got his name because he succeeded in completing a five-man contract in broad daylight at a police station.

And the other man, a taller man who goes by the name Foreigner, stood by his left. True to his name, the man had bright blond hair and green eyes, and he could easily pass off for one of the gringos in town. As a criminal the Foreigner maintained a great presence in the drug scene, responsible for the shipment and transport of cocaine from the other side of the border. That's not to say that he could not handle a gun though.

Blanca quickly went through the details, starting from the beginning when Vix was first brought to the house to the aftermath of the score, as well as part of her personal history and what sounded like a vendetta against the brunette.

"So." Quechua began. "You want us to go after your kid's girlfriend?"

Blanca passed over a sheet of paper containing an address at Mirror Park as well as a photograph of J and Vix, who was circled with red marker, posing at Mount Chiliad to the man.

"…Did I stutter? Of course I do, kid."

"See… I'm confused here." Continued Quechua, pointing at Vix. "So… You're telling me, thirty years ago, when your son was still in diapers, you saw this exact same fucking girl in Vice City?"

"That's right."

"…And you think that this woman here is dating your son?"

"You heard me. The bitch killed my lover. And now she's dating my blood."

"That's some Oedipus type shit, huh boss?" Laughed Foreigner.

"Shut the fuck up, _pendejo_." Shouted Quechua at his man, breaking the silence in the room.

"And now they've just finished robbing some warehouse, made off with about two million dollars without attracting attention."

Quechua began to laugh maniacally. The story that Blanca cooked up was clearly unbelievable, but at the same time, it piqued his interest.

"… _Dios Mio_ , that is just fucking insane, ma'am." Laughed Quechua. "You ever considered a career at Split Sides?"

"I'll pay you boys 800 grand for the girl's head in advance." Interrupted Blanca. "And an extra 300 for my boy."

"Your son too?"

"He has disrespected the memory of our family."

Quechua then proceeded to ask a much more salient question.

"Where's the money now, ma'am?"

"It's in the trunk of the _Huntley_ in the garage." Said Blanca. "Keep the car too."

"That's good." Smiled the gangbanger, putting the cup on the table, before standing up.

"Thanks for the coffee, _abuelita_."

Pulling out an M9, Quechua shot the older woman in the forehead, causing her to slump against the chair and dropping her coffee cup on the floor, spilling the contents all over the wood.

As Blanca lay on the floor dead and bleeding from the head Quechua holstered his pistol and faced his enforcers.

"Her son's with you?"

"He's in the basement of the compound." Replied Cinco. "We're gonna fish him out for info real soon."

"You wanna go for the bitch now?" Asked Foreigner.

"It can wait." Said the leader, heading for the garage. "Meanwhile we gotta take the money back to the place and get on with the Fleeca job."

And, true to their word, in a few hours during the early hours of nighttime the men were outside the Fleeca branch, zipping up Kevlar and putting on their ski masks. Quechua loaded up his MG4 machine gun while the two other enforcers prepped a MP5 submachine gun and a M4 carbine respectively.

"We go in loud." Instructed Quechua. "Not with a whimper or a warning."

The leader pulled the hammer backwards.

"We kill 'em all and head straight to the safe."

Kicking the glass doors down the men began to shoot at everything, and everyone, as Cinco went to the second floor to do the same. As the screaming and gunfire continued the Foreigner turned back and dealt with the guards that went through the front door, as men and women were shot off the railings on the second floor and down to their loud, untimely deaths.

The slaughter was soon over when Quechua was certain that everyone on the ground and second floors were all dead, soon calling for a rendezvous.

"Time for the money, let's head down."

As the men reached the safe they made an example of more guards and left one alive, shot in the left knee.

"What's the code?" Asked Cinco, aiming his rifle at the wounded man's face.

"…4-3-3."

After Cinco pulled the trigger he went in front and keyed the number in, causing the door to automatically open. The three men rushed in and filled the bags with as much as cash time permitted them to, before heading for the exit, which was cornered by the LSPD.

The leader threw a hand grenade and the three gunmen fired at the cops, reducing two police cruisers into burning, charred structures and eliminating an entire unit of officers.

In the darkness of the night they threw the bags into the back of their getaway vehicle, a modest grey Second Generation _Calvacade_ with black tinted windows, and quickly drove off from the scene, speeding past several red and blues as it crossed the red light into the freeway.

Back in the bank, a FIB forensics team was dispatched straight to location and entered the premises immediately, setting up parameters and yellow tapes and doing a body count of the massacre, as men inspected the debris, bodies and expended shell casings of the now quiet and blood-soaked bank.

Walking over the limp body of Alpha an agent looked down and checked her pockets for identification. Pulling out her wallet the agent inspected the cards within it for useful information. Noticing an oddity, he soon reached for a nearby agent for assistance, who walked over.

The agent raised his eyebrow and laughed.

"Since when does a lady with a black card work in janitorial services?"


	9. The Fifth Stage Of Grief (and Sentience)

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 7: The Fifth Stage Of Grief (and Sentience)

* * *

 **THE** doctors could not help the man, in spite of the wife's constant reassurances.

Henry was caught up in a catatonic state deeper than any existential crisis could ever have its effect on.

It occurred to him that the world that he resided in was a script that seemed to repeat forever, that he, and every fabric of his own being, was doomed to an eternity of being a doormat for the gods to play with.

The visions of the suited cowboy he met at the bar that eventful night could never escape his mind. The words he said, and the things that he saw since, was far beyond the mere horrors that any man could face.

However, with realization comes acceptance.

It came a point where Henry Craw, suddenly sparking up after a period of pure desolation, decided to take matters to his own hands.

He wanted to spite his makers by going after the very individuals they were controlling.

He studied them, watched their methods and found where most of them congregated.

The dockworker smiled, slinging his Mossberg over his shoulder as he headed for his _Sadler_ in the parking lot.

He thought it was best for his wife not to find out what he was up to.

Shifting up the gear, the pickup bounced across the escarpment and towards Vinewood.

* * *

 _Simultaneously_ _, at Mojito Inn._

"So, I was thinkin'." Said Hammer, drinking gin from the glass he held. "With regards to the question surroundin' God."

"What about him?"

"See, I never wanted to be a fockin' criminal or anythin', yet somehow I ended up in this shithole town, doin' jobs afta jobs for Lester, Trevor, Lamar an' the like, not sayin' shit to 'em for some reason. An' with the dough I made I bought 15 brand new '32 _Truffade_ _s_ , an' there's s'pposed to be only 10 of those fockin' things in existence."

The criminal, a 30-something white-haired individual of Broker Italian descent dressed in a light blue suit, was engaged in a conversation with two other like-minded individuals.

One of them was named Venus, a young African-American woman from Venturas who recently shipped in and another individual named Gonzo of North Yankton.

All of them had just completed the doomsday heist together, and had similar stories to tell about the strange phenomena surrounding the world they live in.

"...Always wanted to be an actress myself." Nodded Venus. "Got excited when I saw the ticket to LSX in the mail back home. When I flew over... well."

The lady took a sip before continuing.

"It's a different story. Somehow after meeting Lamar I started killing folk and robbing cash from banks, and I don't know why sometimes."

"Oh you betcha." Replied Gonzo in a whimsical, almost exaggerated North Yankton accent. "Don't even like killin' that much myself, I just find myself in a situation where it calls for violence for no justifiable reason."

"S'why I think that God exists, fellas. Shit, why'd ya think we never start talkin' an' smellin' the roses till now long afta the job, like right now? That's cause this whole thing ain't unda our control, so I come to a conclusion; God is fockin' with us. Period."

"Shit, you're getting me all existential-like." Laughed Venus. "You're drunk and talking out of your ass."

"He ain't wrong though." Said Gonzo, stooping his glass.

"How 'bout this huh? Let's just pretend this shit neva happened an' toast to the success of our job- who the fock's that?"

The man outside the bar fired his shotgun repeatedly after each pump, shattering the glass and hitting Hammer in the back, throwing him over the counter as he lay dead, while Venus and Gonzo pulled out their guns and ran for cover.

Henry continued to fire his gun like a madman, slotting slug after slug with each round into the establishment while the two units in the bar returned fire in an attempt to suppress.

Running out of ammunition, Henry angrily threw his weapon into the bar and ran for it.

"How long till Hammer comes back?" Said the woman, her Five-Seven raised in high alert.

"Shouldn't be too long from now, but for now let's go after that bearded fella before he hurts anyone else."

As Henry ran across the streets he narrowly avoided the passing cars which swerved and crashed into each other as the two criminals tailed after him from behind. Bumping into one of Los Santos's finest he wrestled the officer's service pistol from him and shot him in the chest before he continued running.

Gonzo ran and fired his Python at Henry who hid behind a wall, as the two took cover behind a parked _Stanier._

Henry was laughing hysterically, rambling nonsense about sticking it to the heavens above and proving them wrong, blind-firing his pistol from time to time as the two ducked deeper behind the sedan.

His moment of victory, naturally, was short-lived.

Turning around to face the barrel of a Benelli Hammer pulled the trigger, sending the dockworker across the alleyway and onto the ground, as his guts began to spill out from the massive entry wound.

The three regrouped and surrounded the downed individual, who was in a puddle, drowning in his own blood. His hands were stretched out in an almost cross-like position, as blood continued to trail across the asphalt.

"Can't believe this nutjob is still smiling." Said Venus, watching the man's eyes swell up as he let his entrails remain exposed.

Henry laughed weakly and took sharp breaths, as Gonzo raised his gun, prepared to put Henry Craw out of his misery, only for Hammer to push the gun downwards.

"Let this prick bleed out, he ain't worth the time."

"But..."

"Look at this asshole for a second! He's enjoying every minute of it! Now let's get the fock outta here before the cops show!"

Reluctantly, Gonzo holstered his weapon and followed Hammer and Venus back to the bar, leaving Henry for a slow death.

The man began to see whiteness in the vision, as the pain, both physical and mental, began to disappear. He was about to leave the world with a smile on his face, knowing full well he had a hand in screwing with the natural order.

On this day of November 2017, Henry Craw was finally free.


	10. The Hardline

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 8: The Hardline

* * *

" **DETECTIVE** Keye Rawlins, Homicide. What's the situation here?"

Holding up a forged badge, Beta pushed his way through the media men and spoke to the agent-in-charge. In the open cemetery that was once the Vinewood branch of _Fleeca_ , men dressed in suits and trenchcoats which spelt out **'FIB'** walked around the aftermath of the massacre, picking up shell casings and samples of blood into sealed bags and moving cadavers towards the Coroner's van, where they had their bodies covered in lime and white sheets of nylon.

"According to surveillance footage, the perps are believed to be three men, possibly of Hispanic descent, judging by the accents." Said the agent, sliding his sunglasses into his suit pocket. "Kicked the doors down and waltzed right into the open crowd and fired at everyone, everything."

"So there were no female perpetrators involved?"

"Absolutely not, detective."

"What's the catch?"

"46 dead inside the bank including security personnel and 11 outside, mostly LSPD backup units. No survivors. Nearly three and a half mil stolen from the safe."

The agent took a sip of coffee.

"No disrespect, Rawlins, but this is an FIB case, what the hell are you doing here?"

"...Just wanted to know."

Quietly Beta made his way outside the bank and towards the corpses which lay neatly across the road, ready to be shipped off to the morgue. Stepping over yellow tape and greeting the coroner, Beta quickly got the details of the victims and headed over to the last covered body at the end.

Pale feet poking out from the sheet, the executive pulled it down, revealing a dark-haired woman dressed in a bloodsoaked cocktail dress, greenish-brown eyes as glassy as dead fish.

Covering the body, Beta made his way back to his _Sentinel XS_ , revving up the engine as he bit his thumb hard, tears flowing out of his eyes.

They were meant to be headed for Mexico together after taking the cash from the company, to escape the confines of a world which had spiralled out of control.

After a moment of solitude Beta drove off the scene and headed back for the room.

That asshole had some explaining to do.

* * *

 _Erstwhile, at F.K Yu's Bistro, Downtown._

There were only five customers at Yu's this Saturday afternoon, as women dressed in aprons fired up the woks, cooking up Americanized variants of Chinese classics in the steaming hot kitchen. Cartons of sizzling orange and kung pao chicken, beef and broccoli, chow mein and fried potstickers were filled in large catering trays and brought outside to bunsen burners where they were heated up for consumption.

The noise was loud, and distracting, despite the general lack of patrons in the restaurant.

 _Los Santos Transit_ buses raced past the streets as Greg Touissant stuffed an entire potsticker inside his mouth, crunching it as he stared blankly ahead in the empty seat in front of him. The man had Nazi and Aryan Pride tattoos all over his body and yet, he was a regular of Yu's, much to the annoyance of the proprietors, believing a man of his desposition was bad for business.

Turning his head over to the sound of a muscle car roaring he watched as a blond man left his _Monroe_ at the escarpment, casually making his way inside the Bistro, walking across the greasy floors and sitting on the vacant opposite the white supremacist, smiling like an idiot.

"Can I get a Mai Tai, please?" Yelled Charlie at the waiter.

Clasping his palms, the man laughed.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't The Acid Man?"

Greg, having his ambience ruined, began with a question.

"Turismo sent you?"

"She knows half of LS. Just out of curiosity though, why does a man who harbors such ultranationalistic views and a contempt for anything foreign turn up in an establishment such as this one?"

The contract killer chuckled.

"In a town full of kikes, niggers, spics and gooks, where else are you supposed to go, huh?"

Touissant stabbed a fork in another potsticker and raised it.

"Plus, they do a damn good lunch buffet. 15 bucks, for an all-you-can-eat? Sure beats the fags in Mirror Park."

A man dressed in a shirt brought over a cocktail, placing it on the table. Mixing the contents of the Mai Tai with the thin straw provided, Charlie drank.

Crunching on the potsticker, Greg opened his mouth.

"So you here just to have lunch or is this about-"

"Where's my thirty thousand quid, Greg?"

Dropping the fork on the plate, the man stifled a loud laughter as patrons looked at the two men with curiosity, before making a 180 turn to a deadly seriousness and leaned forward, looking the Brit with menacing eyes.

"You know that job fucked up big time." Said the man coldly. "Barely made out of there with the loot, and my life. Even if I wanted to pay up, I don't have _shit_."

"I lent that money, so I expect it to be repaid in full." Smiled Charlie. "Is this such a hard pill to swallow?"

"Go fuck yourself, you limey prick. I ain't paying you shit."

Producing a .38 Revolver on his right hand, concealed for a period of time, the neo-Nazi pointed the gun at Charlie's face, as patrons slowly began to leave the restaurant.

"Now I gave you my answer, I presume that you'd the smarts to haul ass away from this place and never come back again before I pull the trigger by the time the minute's up. The drink's on me, by the way."

In a moment of ineptitude and impulse Charlie slammed the revolver sideways, firing a stray round, blowing his left ear off and shattering glass, as screams were heard inside the bistro, as the gun fell into a corner under the table. Screaming in pain Charlie quickly grabbed the man by the collar and delivered fists into his face, stray teeth flinging across the room as Greg began to bleed from the lips.

Grabbing the fork on the table Greg held the Brit's forearm forward and punctured it, blood seeping from the once clean suit.

"GAHH FUCKIN' SWEET FANNY ADAM'S SUGARY CUNT, MY FUCKIN' ARM!"

As adrenaline sped past his now exposed veins Charlie threw a hook against the man's face with his injured hand, landing him on the ground, and kicked his jaw in while he was covering the upper part of his face, as the glass broke and Mai Tai leaked across the floor.

Picking up the revolver underneath the table and using the table napkins provided at the side to soak up the wounds in his ears and left arm Charlie walked over the white supremacist and pointed the weapon at the back of his head. The Brit was pissed, half-catatonic and bleeding from the mouth.

Greg, heaving prolonged breaths, slowly got up on his knees, spitting blood across the bistro and remained defiant to the end. He did not make eye contact.

"Fuckin' die, you redcoat cocksucker."

Before Greg could say anything else the man behind him fired. Blood spilled outwards from the entry wound as Greg turned over to face his murderer with vacant, porcelain eyes, bits of potsticker mixing in with the red liquid as Charlie threw the gun next to him.

The Brit's left ear was mangled and blood was dripping from his left cuft.

Wincing in pain and pressing the napkins against his forearm Charlie turned to the waiter, who hid behind the counter, and asked weakly.

"...Could you please get some more paper towels, Jeeves?"

* * *

 _Simultaneously_ , _at the Vagos Compound._

J was bound by his hands as he stared at the two men who stood opposite the chainlink fence. They were dressed in yellow jerseys and black pants, drinking Logger and counting the bills on the table for laundering.

His vision was blur and hazy as he looked on at the men, as they continued to ignore him. A cotton pad was tied against his forehead and alcohol hastily applied, the dried brown liquid reaching down his nose.

He was simply heading back home after slipping the postcard at Vix's, and out of the blue someone crashed into his vehicle and pulled him out while he was out cold. The last thing he heard was a bunch of guys talking about Vix and him in Spanish about 'the next job', and then he was here, with his hands tied in some shithole room in the middle of nowhere.

Zipping up the bag, the Foreigner and Cinco opened the gates and walked in, as the latter picked up a lead pipe in the corner.

"Who the hell are you guys? What'd you do to Blanca and Vix?"

"They're fine." Replied the Foreigner. "Your girlfriend's coming in real soon."

"What the hell do you want from us?"

The blond gangbanger took a deep breath and began talking.

"We hear the both of you are real good with your hands."

"Yeah, I jack myself to sleep every night. Thanks for asking. Could you be more fucking specific, man?"

Cinco slammed the lead pipe against the wall, shutting the man up. The Foreigner continued.

"The boss, Quechua, has a big job coming up, and he wants the both of you to help out."

"And if the both of us say no?"

"Then you're dead, both of you!" Shouted the gangbanger. "Plain and simple! We want the both of yous on the frontline job and you're gonna work for us without a choice, you got that?!"

"And where the hell's the job gonna be?" Laughed J.

The Foreigner reached over and held J by the shoulders, making direct eye contact.

"Fort Zancudo. Our info says that the Marines have a money stash hidden underground somewhere in the hangars. You go in there, take the cash for us, and we'll talk of the split."

J turned silent for a moment.

"That's suicide."

The Foreigner let go and walked backwards.

"Well that's too bad, then." He says. "What the boss says, he gets. You got that, puto?"

"No. And it ain't because we can't do the job."

"Why the fuck not, J?"

J looked away and at the gated window of the room, as he saw the old railways of Los Santos, red, rusted and abandoned, rot into obscurity as the sun flamed in the distance. A faint smile formed.

"You obviously don't know what Vix is capable of." He faced his captors.

"Think she's just some random middle-class whitebread hipster stoner girl from Mirror Park, huh? Over the last five to six years I've known her, all we did was jobs. All our jobs, no matter how tough or heavy they were, we managed, and with the money we made could have easily started a huge corporation and get listed on BAWSAQ real quick. Now here's the problem when you bag us off the street in broad daylight and ask us to do a job..."

Slowly, Cinco and Foreigner stepped closer to the man as he continued the anecdote.

"See, Vix is stubborn, and I don't mean like, pulling-your-stupid-kid-to-church-on-Sunday kind of stubborn. Pull this shit on her, and you, your friends, family and your friends' families will go under the fucking sword, slowly. I ain't kidding, man. I've seen her pull that back in '13 on some guy who screwed us over on a job for 15 grand..."

"What the fuck did she do?" Asked Cinco.

"...Her eyes change, just like that, like some crazy split personality just took over. She found out where this asshole was living in town, and I drove her there. Instead of one body on her hands, it was eleven, including three women, according to the San Andreas Tribune Bleet the next day. I don't think anyone screwed with us since. So I'm gonna ask you again..."

The Foreigner raised his left eyebrow and gave the signal, as Cinco raised the pipe.

"Can you just, fucking let me go, please?"

"...I've heard enough of this piece of mierda for a day." Laughed the Foreigner.

"Cinco, fuck him up good and bring him back to the basement. We'll take him to the car tomorrow."

The man began to swing.

"You're making a mista-"

* * *

 _At Vix's._

" _I don't give a damn about you, woman, and frankly I don't care if your boss was dead from sticking a prickly pear up his rectum."_ Said the black-and-white detective to a secretary in a film noir, mixed in a heavy amount of television static. _"All I care about is getting it on with you within the confines of a bedroom, to extract information of course. Where's my goddamned Redwood cigarette?"_

Lying across the couch, Vix was half-asleep, sticking a joint in her mouth as she breathed the fumes in, the THC began to come into effect as her mind began to float in an eternal space.

She was higher than the sun which shined mercilessly across the city and she imagined that the sun burned every single thing in its path like a flaming tire down a hill of grass, leaving behind a trail of fire as a new city emerged in its place from the ground.

Or so that's how she pictured it.

The static soon became worse, in which she picked up a nearby remote control and tried to turn the flatscreen off to no avail.

Staring at her reflection at the mirror on the table, she observed that her hair was noticeably lighter in color, almost a shade of hazel.

 _Probably just the ash._ She thought to herself.

As static continued to buzz her phone rang on the table next to a bag of marijuana and cigarette paper.

She got up and picked it up.

It was an unknown number which traced back to Edinburgh, Scotland.

Under the belief that she was still high, she hung up before the same number rang again a few seconds later.

The young woman sighed and swiped right and placed the phone against her ear, and a female voice came through.

"Hello?"

An American accent came through.

"It's been a while. How's things, Vix?"

"Who's this? How did you get my number?"

"...Why don't you just think it through for a while and find out for yourself?"

It took her a while to realize that the voice was just like hers.

The static continued as Vix remained dumbfounded, phone latched onto her ear like she just heard a nuclear siren.

"...What the fuck is going on?"


	11. The Meeting Act III (Final)

_Somewhere in Los Santos._

 **AN** opaque brown stain stretched across the marble, reaching from the corners of the room all the way to the bases of the tables, where it coagulated around the edges like rust on iron, as the smell of turpentine permeated the air.

A noisy shuffling was observed as Charlie continued to rummage through the safe located underneath what used to be the boss's corner of the room, pulling out stacks of bills whenever he could and placing them in a briefcase next to him, to its right which lay a Model 31 shotgun skinned in charcoal black and pearl white. An impractical weapon given his injuries, but a weapon nonetheless.

The blond, half delirious from a combination of blood loss, pain and panic, had a blood-drenched makeshift cast made out of paper towels wrapped around his left forearm as he periodically applied alcohol on what was left of his left ear to stop the bleeding, causing him to release cries of pain with each drop of liquid.

Gritting his teeth, and putting up an almost faux sense of pseudo-positivity, Charlie continued to shove more bills down the case until he was certain that he had about two million worth of laundered, clean cut Benjamin Franklins inside it, before closing it up and placing it on the table.

Hearing the crackle of the twin doors splinter, the other surviving executive of the board walked in, pointing a P226 at the man.

The man had a cold stare of tranquil fury, like a bull all pent up to charge at the defenceless matador without a red cape who stood in front of him.

The man spoke.

"You look messed up."

"It's too late mate." Said Charlie, keeping his hands raised. "The safe's finished."

"Planning to skip town already huh?"

The man, smirking, replied with a quiet nod.

"Obviously not."

"I know you've been selling us out since the boss dropped."

"I didn't."

"All these sudden leaves, hesitations and ass pulls from the meetings...You've been selling company files to some contact in the Hills." Said Beta, pulling the hammer. "You didn't happen to sell him or her a file on the Fleeca branch in Vinewood, did you?"

"...So I've heard. I've read the papers, seen the list of fatalities. Always knew you had a thing for her, really."

The man fired a stray round across Charlie, breaking his smile and causing him to recoil as the bullet pierced through the wall behind him. His sense of confidence and entitlement was immediately shattered.

"Then you know why I'm fucking here!" Declared Beta.

"L-listen lad." Stammered Charlie, lowering his posture slowly.

"Both of us are royally fucked in the arse regardless of the outcome. The company is gonna come down hard, not to mention the danger of a certain rogue unit with a history of animosity also after us, and we'd be lucky if we managed to leave LS with our bollocks intact."

Turning the briefcase and opening it up, Charlie revealed the green.

"You take a mil, I'll take a mil. After which we go our seperate ways and fuck _right_ off from this town for good, aye?"

Sliding the case over Charlie used this moment of distraction to pick his shotgun up, and soon the two executives were moving crabwise around the room, their weapons pointing at each other like in a western.

"Listen carefully." Said Charlie. "I did not sell her anything with regards to that branch that just got nabbed. And even if I did, I don't believe my contact would be stupid enough to let a band of psychotics do the job. It was purely independent of our doing, and may I say, amateur in nature, on their part."

"That's definitely reassuring."

"Hey now, don't paint me up as the villain here! I'm aware that the both of you likewise intended to embezzle funds from the organisation! With the boss dead, anyone would do it in your shoes, as a matter of fact!"

Charlie and Beta soon faced opposite ends of the room, as a slit of sunlight in between drapes shined against Charlie's suit from the front window.

"However, to your misfortune, I came first, so... The money's all mine, I suppose."

Taking a breath, the man pumped his shotgun.

"Any last words?"

"Go fuck yourself." Snarked Beta.

The African-American fired his gun first, hitting Charlie twice in the chest and once in the shoulder as another round hit him in the right ear, blowing it clean off, as he leaned backwards in pain.

Coughing up blood and looking at his adversary with Kubrick-esque eyes, the Brit readied his shotgun and fired at the executive. The pellets rushed through his chest and with the sheer force of the impact the man was thrown backwards, breaking the windows behind him as a splatter of blood coated the curtains, pulling it down allowing more sunlight to enter the room. A panoramic view of the Marlowe Drive road outside was visible in all its glory as Beta exerted pressure on his wounds.

The man dropped the Sig on the marble and fell on the brown stain, spilling new blood across the former zone of suicide.

It was game over for Beta.

Picking himself up slowly and painfully, Charlie pumped and shot another round at the dead body out of spite, throwing the shotgun on the side afterwards as he closed and pulled the heavy briefcase forward, holding it tightly with his progressively failing right hand.

With nothing but a constant ringing in his now-missing ears and a gradual drifting of his consciousness Charlie squeezed the handle as he stumbled across the room towards the exit, as a steadily increasing trail of blood followed him through.

There were no victors in the duel for the dollar bill, only muzzle smoke, broken glass and distant footsteps which stopped abruptly following the shooting.


	12. Orders

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 9: Orders

* * *

 **SHE** heard the voice before.

It was right after Conga and co's slaying at their apartment in Pillbox, and once more in 2014, when she was done with jobs for a while. Fast forward to 2017 she heard fragments of them at the docks too, as a matter of fact.

Today Vix heard the voice clearly.

 _No, can't be. I'm just high as a fucking kite here, this ain't real._

Last time she checked the dealer was clean, never snuck anything illicit into the drugs she took. Then again, she saw the bag of angel dust in his inventory.

 _Can't be_ _him, he'd never pull shit like that._

Or was it some semblance of a moral conscience that was vocalising in her head?

 _I've got a code, no innocents unless absolutely necessary, always have, always will-_

"Since when?" The voice laughed. "Don't you ever remember the unspeakable things that you've done?"

"...I don't know what you're talking about. If you're talking about the van thing, those guards were trying to kill..."

"Oh, there's more to it than that, Vix. Far more terrible and irredeemable things that if you knew the details to, you'd off yourself there and then."

A brief moment of silence ensued as the room turned hazier with smoke and the static on the television persistent, like a violent tidal wave during a thunderstorm.

"Jog your memory a bit, and you'll find out soon enough." Said the voice in an almost mocking tone. "Meanwhile, remember when Javier told you about that big job coming up?"

"...Yeah?"

"That address on the postcard, get to it, pronto. The contact will pass you the prints."

Vix swallowed and pouted her lips, cold sweat running down her progressively ashier hair.

"And if I don't?"

A cold object pressed against the back of the woman's head as the gunman circled around to the front of the sofa.

An uncanny and otherworldly look was plastered over the man's demeanor. He was Latin-looking and middle-aged, cleanly-shaven and wearing a dark purple polo and black dress pants, his silenced USP rustling against Vix's hair and face like some undertaker inspecting a member of the deceased.

The man's eyes were lifeless and dark, his eyeballs and sockets almost the same shade of brown, almost as if he was possessed by a higher power or the like.

Vix was wide-eyed, almost ready to plead for her life as she slowly lowered her Fruit phone.

"121 Frost Drive, Vinewood Hills. Room 2. Go."

The line dropped, throwing Vix back into the dark with a stranger.

The gunman shifted his head and pointed his gun at the door, keeping an eye on the criminal lest she tried anything.

There was something unsettling and inhuman about that man that Vix felt that she had no control over, that forced her to do his bidding. Normally by now she would have shot the man and dragged him to the trunk but somehow the tables were turned in this.

It was the first time she was truly afraid.

Snatching the keys for her _Rhapsody_ , she opened the door causing a massive gust of smoke to pop out into the open, went straight inside the hatchback and ran the engine as the gunman rode shotgun, resting the pistol on his lap and continually staring at Vix with the same look which never budged.

"...I'm just running the engine, easy there." Whispered Vix fearfully, looking straight ahead on the quiet Mirror Park suburb. "Just... could you point that thing elsewhere-?"

" **Drive.** " Bellowed the man, the emotionless stare stagnated as the silenced firearm continued to face the young lady.

Pulling the clutch three gears up the _Rhapsody_ dived forward across the escarpment as the rear view of the Dominator grew smaller as she left the driveway and into town. She drove quick and cautiously across the roads and freeways, taking exits wherever necessary.

She noticed that the streets were empty, and not a soul was on the road save for a few trailers and taxis. Los Santos was overcast with grey clouds, the smell of petrichol permeated the air and odd sunshine flickered in the greyscale as shadows of palm trees loomed eeriely across the asphalt, crossing over uninhabited muscle cars and vans.

She was driving, and the man was still beside her, eternity lay on the road ahead.

With some time they finally reached the home on the hills, now quiet and covered with the remnants of bonafide American hedonism, scraps of food, condoms and broken glass scattered across the marble and in the nearby pool.

"Get out." Ushered the man, as Vix walked out with her hands up.

Unarmed and walking into the unknown this was probably going to be the end. She always knew when the time comes she was going to going to go out without a prayer.

Or perhaps not. She didn't know full well of what exactly was going on.

Hell, it was as if her mundane life had made a 180 degree detour into complete surrealism and mystery ever since she rang up J that fateful day.

She turned her back, and saw the man, his weapon holstered, standing silently along the path, waiting for someone, or something.

Closing her eyes Vix opened the door and stepped into a pit of empty bottles and toppled tables, ripped cushions scattered across the room leaving a trail of cotton and broken plaques against the walls. It looked like where punk rock came to die.

A lone individual stood at the minibar drinking liquor, on the rocks. He looked like one of those Vinewood producer-type predators who Vix kept seeing on the TV.

There Bishop gave the woman goo-goo eyes, checking out all over her, and placed his glass on the table.

"Party's over, so get the fuck outta here, unless you're looking for work, lady."

"Where's Turismo?" Asked Vix.

The man laughed.

"Christ Almighty, if you're gonna do it at least let me set up a camera crew to film the whole thing."

Bishop felt his knee drop as the criminal threw a left hook, making him spit out a liquid string of bourbon across the bar. Cloth soon dragged and the glass fell and broke as the producer's face landed against the bar table several times, a blood mark forming on the cracked glass. Spinning the man around and holding him by the collar Vix faced Bishop, bleeding from the mouth and his now-broken nose, eyes turning red.

"I'm not in a good fucking mood so I'm gonna ask one last time, fuckface. Where's Turismo?"

Breathing hard and gurgling a mixture of saliva and blood from his lips, Bishop stifled a weak chuckle.

"...She's over in room two. Just walk in. Try not to check for any peep cams while you're at it..."

The last straw was dropped, and Vix lifted the man's head and slammed it downwards, knocking him out and landing facedown onto the carpet.

Wiping the blood off her fists with a nearby napkin and walking up the stairs, Vix knocked outside room 2, and stepped in. The other woman in the room on an armchair at the curtains was now dressed in an unkempt black long-sleeved shirt and a loose white tie with no pants on, on her lap was a folder containing several maps and documents highlighted and circled with red pen, and was aptly titled " **The Final Score.** "

"J sent you?" Asked Turismo, her left eye obscured by a bang of auburn hair. "Didn't expect some girl to come by."

Vix nodded and sat on the nearby bed.

"That your boss outside?"

"Yeah. I heard the beatings. Can't say you did the wrong thing, fuckin' creep."

"You haven't done your due diligence in this line of work, have you?"

Turismo stood up and handed the folder to the woman, who proceeded totake the sheets out, one by one, and inspected them carefully. The Rio Grande logo was present on all the files, on reports, blueprints, security protocols and the like.

"Wow, so you're for real."

"...Shit's 50 feet underground so you're gonna need a digger for this." Said Turismo, ignoring the earlier statement.

"No doubt."

"And you're gonna need this little thing too."

The escort showed Vix what appeared to be a small device resembling a thumbdrive and sealed it inside a brown envelope. Throwing it over to Vix, she then carefully placed the object in a secure region of the folder and checked inside.

"And what's this?"

"That there is going to plunge this city into good ol' fashioned anarchy."

Turismo leaned over and began talking, moving closer to the criminal as her tie began to swing loosely above her unbuttoned shirt collar. Taking a numbered report from the stack the escort flipped through the pages and landed on what appeared to be a computer-generated layout of the keyhole-shaped passage and to a larger extent the server rooms located after it.

"You're probably aware this ain't gonna be no picnic, right?"

"If I knew it was, why would I be here?"

"Like, if anyone else tried it they'd be dead before they even reach the bay."

Hearing this the woman shrugged as she looked at her knuckles. They were still stained with the man's blood. Squeezing and cracking them Vix looked up at the escort's eyes.

Pointing at the circled squares Turismo continued as Vix turned her body towards the armchair and looked.

"The servers in this complex handle all the finances and reputation levels in South San Andreas for all the bad boys in town. Transactions, drug deals, killing sprees, yard sales... They're all recorded and kept track of in there. A big, corrupt electronic bank ready to be mined off the bat."

"Well it's lights out for everybody in town. Where does that drive thing come in?"

Turismo turned the page, showing a much more magnified and detailed part of the server room. A small layout of a room was visible.

"That there's the computing and redundancy room that's in charge of the overall coordination of all the servers. Head to this gigantic piece of machinery and plug the drive in. What it does is it fucks up the code in the servers and depletes all the finances in town to zero, while diverting them to you and J's accounts."

"So that's it? No firewalls, safety measures, shit like that? Just plug it in and we get the money?"

"Well ain't technology amazing?"

"So you're telling me J wasn't full of shit after all, huh? But why trust us with the job though?"

"Seeing as the last job you two did went smoothlike, my gut feeling tells me that you'll manage." Laughed Turismo. "And it's usually right..."

"And?"

"There's something special about you, I kinda get vibes of it."

Half-grinning, Vix sealed up the documents and the envelope containing the device back into the folder as the escort continued.

"Of course, you're gonna encounter a shit heap of Rio Grande's finest once you reach down there. Ex-Spec Forces, mercenaries, serial killers and psychopathic ice cream men, craziest sons-of-bitches you'll ever meet guarding the place like it's Fort Knox during World War III or something. Contact told me there's even a tank and juggernauts on standby there."

"...You could pit the depths of hell against me and I'd still make it out in time for a foot massage. Killer security or not, that's not going to stop me. Don't mind me asking, what's in this for you?"

Leaning forward, Turismo's lips formed a playful smile.

"I guess I just like seeing the world speed up, crash and burn."

Spontaneously, the escort pushed the criminal down against the bed and pounced on top of her as she began to unbutton her shirt further.

Vix was dumbfounded, and felt a foreboding sense of unease surround her person. The room was shrouded in darkness, save for the dim red light on the ceiling, as something slowly began to eat her from inside.

"What the fuck are you doing?" She questioned.

"Just a tiny bonus for my clients after they're done with business." Whispered Turismo against her ear, her shirt sliding slowly down her shoulders. "And that, I suppose, leads to a much more important question at hand."

Darkness continued to consume the room as Vix felt a strange sense of innate hunger materialise. Something was knocking on the door inside her, ready to bust in and shoot her dead.

"You fucked any girls before?"

* * *

 _Hours later_ _, at the Vagos Compound._

"Hey, jefe!"

East Los FM was amped up to eleven in the brick shithouse as the Foreigner made his way upstairs to spread the word to his boss. Tables were filled with unsnorted lines of cocaine, dollar bills and gangbangers dressed in yellow. It was the perfect place for a DOA shootout.

Pushing through other Vagos members, the Foreigner stepped inside Quechua's office, seeing his boss in a situation that needed no explaining as the sound of sucking and moaning filled the room. Behind the table the enforcer caught a glimpse of a pair of legs in black stockings stockings in a kneeling position.

"J's locked in the basement, boss." Said Foreigner nervously, unable to face Quechua's expression of unusual contortion.

"Yeah... That's fuckin' great..." Whispered the boss, pushing the hooker's face closer as he stretched his legs forward. "Oye... so he's in the basement huh? What, you gonna punish him with a spiked dildo or somethin'?"

Looking away the subordinate continued.

"We'll get him in the car by tomorrow morning, we're going for the girl tonight. That cool, jefe?"

"Maldito... That's right baby! ...Goddamn that's the money shot right there!" Cried the gangbanger as the Foreigner turned away to the sound of pants zipping.

"...Get the fuck outta here, Clara. I got business to handle."

"Whatever. You're still in hock for 500, you fuckin' imbecile!"

With that noble closing speech the hooker flipped the boss off before rubbing shoulders with the Foreigner, smiling seductively at the man, before walking out of the room, which then lead to the official discussion of events.

"J's downstairs. Cinco's taking charge of him."

"And what about the girl?"

"Like I said, we're gonna nab her tonight and take her here too. I'm getting some of the guys to watch the house later in case she pops by."

"Well then." Pouted Quechua, pressing his palms against the edge of the table.

"Step to it, motherfucker."

As the conversation finished upstairs J regained his consciousness with the sensation that his face might fall apart any second. The man was lying on cold, hard concrete, shirt soaked in his own spittum and blood, hand untied and caged up in a cell. He checked his surroundings and noticed that it was darker than usual in this place and saw a man standing guard with shades on.

He recognized him as that gangbanger with lead pipe from earlier.

"Sunglasses at night? Real fucking intelligent, brother." Laughed J.

Turning around, Cinco threw over an Up-N-Atom burger wrapped up in paper inside the cell as the criminal grabbed it quickly with both hands.

"...The fuck is this?"

The enforcer turned on his back and walked away from the cell, as the phone inside his pocket began to ring.

"Dinner."

"Where the fuck are you going?" Shouted J as he unwrapped the burger, looking out through the gaps of the gate.

"I'm taking a shit."


	13. Witness Protection

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 10: Witness Protection

* * *

 _Flamenco, Vice City, 1988._

 **AN** indistinct black '82 _Admiral_ was parked acrossed the block from the apartment, which was adjourned in purple-blue neon lights and makeshift torches brimming against the whitewashed plaster walls and its Streamline Moderne-influenced curves. The condominium in question was titled Atlantis in large Broadway letters on its front entrance and it was of no doubt that this five-star joint came into existence through the financing of drug money, like many other places in town.

Behind the opaque, dark-tinted windows sat a brown-haired, moustached and middle-aged DOA agent by the name of Rustin Fletcher. The scars across his shoulders tell escapades of Hill 243 against the NVA in Vietnam, while the badge hidden underneath his navy blue pastel suit told a different, much more sinister story.

The man holstered his carbon finish Beretta M9, his service pistol, within the confines of his suit and putting on his aviators, before stepping out of the vehicle into the bright, shining and turquoise Vice afternoon as he heard the palm trees rustle in the gentle wind.

The war on narcotics was swayed towards their favor, and drug barons, once a force of compulsion and fear-mongering for the people and the papers at large, had their empires dissolved through five tumultous years of government intervention and Reagan, reduced to nothing but former shells of themselves who will stab anyone in the back without blinking twice in exchange for immunity from the law.

Agent Fletcher was about to meet him a couple of such players whose fall from grace only matched in terms of embarrassment the cardboard boxes they would live in in some Midwestern State for the rest of their already short lives.

Walking into the pristine pearl lobby the agent puckered his lips as he adjusted his aviators. A table-mounted bell was hammered on, and a bellhop, dressed in red and looked and sounded to be of Hispanic descent, stepped out of the security room.

"Agent Rustin Fletcher, DOA. Here to see Leo Juarez and Marta Blanco."

"Yes sir. They're on the 29th floor, unit 12, should I take you there?"

"I think it's best if I head up myself."

Calling the elevator the agent turned around and checked his surroundings, only interrupted by the sound of a running fountain in the center of the lobby, behind which lay a criss-crossed set of staircases. Next to the fountain was a neat row of matching decor and furniture of which sat a woman, dressed in a black nightgown with striking platinum blonde hair, who looked no more than her mid-20s, staring at a static-filled box television, indistinguishable from the water gushing nearby, mounted on the wall tuned to VCN, broadcasting the crime scene where the gruesome murder of Lupisella drug lord Niccolo "Blender" DeCavante happened. Within the vagueness Rust observed a faint satisfaction present on the woman's expression, but nothing serious compelled him to start asking questions.

 _Probably the same whackjobs that write love letters to convicted killers._ Thought Rust.

The elevator door opened and the agent stepped in. Flashing a rally of lights as the elevator plunged into dimness the door opened to a dark brown, sleek hallway with minimalist numbered unit numbers. Following the increasing set of numbers he reached the sign that said "12" and belled.

The door opened and a man dressed in a cotton shirt and an unkempt blue Hawaiian shirt with hastily tied bermudas walked him in. Taking a seat on an armchair nearby a beautiful dark-haired woman in a body towel walked out of the kitchen carrying a coffee pot and a set of cups and saucers as the three began their line of dialogue.

These folks, at one point in Vice City, controlled seventy-six percent of the pure, uncut cocaine going in and out of town, responsible for almost 250 murders and many more unconfirmed disappearances and now they were here, begging for a chance at Witness Protection Programme, and the only thing redeemable about them was that the woman had a kid on the way.

Rust lifted his coffee cup.

"So you're officially giving up? The drugs, the life, killin', hookers... All that shit?"

"Yes." Said Leo solemnly, staring down at the black liquid, as his companion looked out of the window.

"Takes a hell's worth o' stones to do that, especially considerin' the fact that you just singlehandedly reopened a lot o' shut cases dating back to '79 and left a report the size of a fuckin' phonebook sittin' on the director's desk."

"...And there's still more coming."

The agent stood up with his left hand in his pocket and stared at the Vice City skyline ahead of him. Dominated by contrasting shades of white, green and blue, the town looked cleaner from the outside than five years ago, and with the information he got, it was just about to become much cleaner.

Rust savoured the coffee.

"Save it for the ball, Leo. For now though, here's what I can give you in exchange for blowin' the whistle."

"Enlighten us."

The DOA agent turned around and placed two seperate folders labelled _A_ and _B_ respectively across the table.

Inside the folders contained new identity cards, passports and social security numbers and several employment papers and property deeds for housing.

"Feel free to take a look."

The man and woman of the house each took a folder and browsed, condos and family sedans in Carcer City or landed properties and a real estate fund in New Elizabeth, a modest, boring and under-the-radar far cry from their soon-to-be-previously-violent lives, it was up to them to decide.

"Private school educations for our kids, huh?"

"Along with a payment from the agency every month to keep y'all in check."

The drug lord chuckled as he placed the folder back on the table and sipped his coffee.

"I thought we was going to head to San Andreas?" Questioned Leo.

"We can't survive in either of those places, Rust. People'll know who we are." Said Marta. "Los Santos is a safer bet, heard there was plenty of families just like us across there."

"Now that would just be plain whistlin' Dixie, fellas." Said Rust, pointing his index at the two criminals. "We're fightin' a drug war and runnin' a deficit right now and these places are what made the cut. You're gonna have to make do."

"So it's a money problem, huh?"

"Since when was it never a problem? Agencies need fundin' too."

A brief moment of silence ensued before Rust continued with a different question.

"So is it a boy or a girl?" Asked the agent, eyes locked at Marta.

"...We don't know yet."

Leaning back against the armchair and placing the cup on his side Rust began to sigh. Too many people had died in this conflict and the least he could do was to get these folk to raise a kid right.

Though this meant that he had to break protocol.

"I'll tell you what gonna happen." Said Rust. "You know when and where the DOA ball is gonna be?"

"Yes."

"Put on your nicest suit and dress and bring all the names o' the fellas associated with the cocaine biz and pass 'em to me and only me. Once that's over and you're back here, open your mailbox. Sound good?"

The criminals looked at each other. They couldn't say no to that proposition.

Smiling, the agent pulled out a few confessional documents and a vow of confidentiality from inside his suit and clicked up a pen.

"...I'm gonna need your signature, here, here and..."

The agent left the unit and entered the first elevator, and came across the same blonde watching the TV at the lobby, now with a jacket over the nightgown. They exchanged smiles as the elevator lights continued to blink as it descended.

"You were watchin' the TV earlier." Cued Rust.

"That's quite the observation, mister." Smiled the woman. "What did you do today?"

"Had a little chat with a bunch of drug dealers just earlier." Said Rust nonchalantly. "Promised them a little freedom from getting killed."

"So..." Asked the woman, staring at the shining badge on the agent's belt. "You got yourself a people problem, don't you, Mr. DOA?"

"If you want to put it that way, doll." Laughed Rust. "I lived Vice the last ten years, there's always gonna be people problems wherever you go."

"Well..." Said the woman, staring at the lights. "I've travelled from state to state for enough years and I can tell you with the utmost confidence that these problems aren't exclusive to this town alone."

"So what'd you do to rectify them?"

"Rectify what?"

"The people problems."

Hearing this the woman chuckled.

"I'll do what any human being would do." Grinned the woman.

"I deal with them."

The elevator sounded, and the doorways opened up to the 12th floor.

"That's quite the conversation, doll." Smiled Rust, eyeing out in the open. "Your stop?"

"Yes it is." Smiled the woman, cradling the agent's face. "I'll catch up real soon, Mr. DOA."

Hitting the buttons again, the elevator closed again and went down to the ground floor, where Agent Rustin Fletcher stepped out to a violent surprise.

The bellboy he saw earlier was now on the floor in a fetal position, hands pressed against his abdominal region, his bright red suit and the carpet he lay on caked in blood and a silenced MP5K not far from him. He was as dead as the water rushing aimlessly near him.

As the agent stepped forward to inspect he saw another man, this time a well-dressed man with shades on against the wall bleeding to death with a PK on his right hand. From the accent alone Rust assumed the man to be associated with the Mob.

"Don't try anything I wouldn't, asshole." Said Rust, reaching slowly for the man's gun, only for him the point it at his direction as the agent leaned against the wall with his hands up.

"You know that threatenin' a federal agent with a weapon is a felony, right?"

"Yeah..." Coughed the mobster. "I've seen shit today... and..."

The mobster raised his pistol.

"Jail time's probably better worth the time than even steppin' foot in here to start with."

With that, the man fired, splattering his brains out across the white marble as he slumped downwards against the wall.

Upon witnessing the suicide the agent quickly rushed to the telephone at the counter and called it in.

"This is DOA Agent Rustin Fletcher, badge 52002. ...I'm gonna need a coroner and a few units over at the Atlantis Luxury Apartments in Flamenco."

Pushing through the doors Rust heard sirens in the distance as he headed back for his sedan on the side of the road, and set his sights back on the streets.

Zooming past a few red and blues he tried to believe, and was certain that, it was just another gangland shooting, as the coroner would probably make it up to be, and that Marta and Leo definitely did not have a hand in it, if not for the constant echoing of the mobster's last words. The alibi was not clear.

Not to mention the woman he met in the elevator.

What exactly did the mobster see when he went to the apartments? But a more salient question popped up; Was Rust thinking too much?

The ball was less than four days from now, the criminals needed their new identities and Rust needed to get another coffee. There was food for thought and he had too much on his plate at the moment.

Most cases he dealt with were more or less open-and-shut and assumed that this was the same.

With Occam's razor kicking in, the agent shrugged it off and continued driving.

It was just another drug-related scuffle for him.


	14. Shedding Skin

Poor, Broke and Off The Radar

Chapter 11: Shedding Skin

* * *

 _Back to the present day, Los Santos._

 **VIX** looked at the mirror across the room next to the flatscreen and stared at her own reflection, which held together nothing short of a wide-eyed, almost shellshocked expression as continuous sobbing seeped in from the bed next to her.

In a glimpse of the different world she witnessed a faint, lengthly blur of disturbing proportions. Vignettes of torture, death and sexual violence flashed across the corners of her vision like a camera shutter as soft cries for help and mercy crossed her ears.

She was no believer of reincarnations but somehow a past life that she could vaguely remember was unmasking slowly.

She knew something malignant was slowly taking control of her, and the revelation that made it all worse was that she had no recollection of what just happened in the room.

Snapping out of a nightmarish trance Vix looked down and noticed that she was bareskinned and covered in scratches and a small stain of blood near the tips of her right index and middle fingers. A nauseating, metallic taste was present inside her mouth as she tilted her head to face the escort, likewise unclothed, huddled in the corner of the room, covering her face.

A moment soon passed and Vix, comatose, took her clothes to the bathroom and stepped into the shower, pulling the lever as the sound of water rushing drowned out the sobbing.

A faint trail of red water circled the drain while locks of sickly light brown hair weighed downwards as she squeezed the water out from the tips.

Standing under the shower head for a moment she soon realised that her hair was not covered in ash.

In the midst of all the incomprehensible madness Vix found herself in the same situation as she was the day she rang J up, and was now at loggerheads with herself with regards the underlying question which started all this.

 _Is this what you wanted?_

She wanted the action back into her life, and she got it, and somehow in a strange, cosmic sense there was a cost to it.

The right to unveil the hidden depths within her.

Wiping herself clean with a nearby towel, Vix dressed up in her denim jacket and jeans, took all the necessary documents she needed for the heist and made straight for the exit, slamming the door behind her.

Stepping a few paces down the stairs, the criminal felt her phone buzz again. Standing against the front door Vix pressed her phone against her left ear, as she watched Bishop slowly pick himself up from the carpet, pushing away broken glass aimlessly.

The voice came through, and Vix was ready to vent.

 _"She was great, wasn't she? A woman's touch can feel a lot different, if you ask me."_

"Go and royally fuck yourself, whoever you are! What the fuck did you just make me do to her, you insufferable bitch?"

 _"You're getting a little mouthy, Vix. I don't appreciate that gesture."_

"Well, I don't appreciate getting screwed in the head. I know you had something to do with it, you goddamned psychopath. "

 _"What makes you think you're not responsible for it?"_

Pausing momentarily in slight shock, Vix continued.

"I know for a fact that it ain't a fucking coincidence that my hair was suddenly getting dyed up when you phoned me. Just tell me where you are so we can settle this the American way."

 _"I'll assure you that that day will come soon enough. Meanwhile, I suggest sticking to the plan, Vix, and not let this growing rift between you and my voice cloud your judgement."_

Leaning back, Vix took a breath, and out of Dutch courage, a loud, yet noticeably nervous laughter escaped from her vocal cords.

"Whatever you say, Lady MacBeth. What's stopping me from grilling these docs up in smoke?"

" _Because, and you may not realise it now, somewhere inside you, you've always wanted something like this to happen."_

The phone line gave pause as Vix watched Bishop writhe in pain in front of her, muttering expletives from under his breath as the pain from the back of his head grew.

 _"Time to wake up and smell the coffee, Vix. Phase B is already underway and you're still stuck in some whorehouse in the hills."_

"...So where do I go now?"

 _"Try using your imagination. You aren't a follower like the rest of the sheep in this hovel of a city. This is the last phone call you're going to get from me. We'll meet face-to-face real soon."_

And with that, the voice was gone, seemingly replaced by the tormented curses of a certain Vinewood producer.

"You fuckin' bitch... Call me a goddamned doctor already!" Cried Bishop, wiping the blood of his eyes and nose. "I can't see nothing but fuckin' red, for Christ's sake!"

Walking over to a table, Vix tossed the man a set of towels before heading out of the door, as Bishop continued to shout frantically from inside, berating the woman who maimed him with outspoken passion.

Sunset was creeping up, and Vix noticed that the gunman from earlier was gone for good, and her _Rhapsody_ was conveniently parked on the lot, as other more expensive cars rolled down the hill, their white lights shining in all their glory.

Stepping inside the vehicle and running the engine the _Rhapsody_ backed up and drove away down to Vinewood itself.

Narrowly passing through one way roads, palm trees and people the hatchback swerved to the right lane and up the I-1, and Vix watched the sky slowly shift from a dark orange hue to a navy palette in one fell swoop as the Los Santos traffic relented brutally even in nightfall.

 _Tape Loop_ by _Morcheeba_ filled the air inside the vehicle, filling it with a haunting atmosphere as the trip hop beat soldiered on along with the _Rhapsody_ across the red lights, as commuters of the road exchanged fingers over tailgates and road cuts.

Nothing filled the mind of the career criminal, her emotions were all but numb or suppressed after today, and it was likely that it would remain that way for moments to come. An aura of stoicism was growing around her, and yet, Vix did not care. She only had one goal in mind right now, and that was to go to J's.

Perhaps this was her calling after all.

Stopping in front of the house it became clear to her that something was out of the ordinary. The _Buccaneer_ and _Huntley_ were nowhere to be seen, and instead, a pitch black _Washington_ was in its place, recently parked in.

Cautiously, Vix opened the glovebox and gripped around the handle of her Glock, while stuffing the document inside her jacket. With her gun in her pocket Vix made her way across the East Los Santos street and inside the house, front door unlocked.

Creeping up with a pistol in hand, Vix peeked around the corner and eyeballed the intruder of the house, yet another middle-aged man, this time dressed in black, sit on the couch with his legs crossed. Next to him lay the limp body of Blanca, who showed signs of decay as the pool of dark blood around her began to dry.

The man was smiling, and this gave Vix all the more reason to just shoot him.

Emerging out of the shadows, the criminal raised her weapon at the man, almost ready to pull the trigger with one squeeze if not for what she saw on the table in front of her.

The revelation soon became just as clear as the photographs on the tables were. Several pictures of her were laid across the table, ranging from polaroids, sepia-toned films to vague black-and-white stills, some circled with marker and labelled with seemingly random words unintelligable without proper context.

A briefcase with the same logo as the documents from Frost Drive was placed next to the assortment of photographs and newspaper clippings.

This was enough for Vix to holster her weapon. This all seemed so unreal, and yet, she had many questions that have yet to be answered.

Sitting down on a nearby armchair, Vix made eye contact with the man.

"You and I need to talk."


	15. Discrepencies

Poor, Broke And Off The Radar

Chapter 12: Discrepencies

* * *

 _Cocktail Twins_ _, Washington Drive, Vice City, 1988._

 **HIGH NOON** clocked above the tropical skies as rollerbladers dashed through the lime white streets outside. Lusters of pink and blue reflected off the walls of the seaside buildings as they overlooked the sprawling mass of turquoise Atlantic in front of them.

Inside the bar, which sat in a prime part of the drive, seated several smartly-dressed individuals of different skin tones conversing in different tongues of mostly Spanish and English, discussing vague details of parties, business deals and narcotics, while drinking from tall glasses filled to the brim with colorful cocktails and mixes.

 _I'm In Love With A German Filmstar_ by _The Passions_ played quietly over the minced chatter as the sound of waves crashing against the white sand continued outside, populated by local and foreign beachgoers alike.

The cartel couple sat on the high chairs in the executive section of the bar, facing each other but not making eye contact, looking down at the rims of their White Russians, and justifiably so.

Even before the shooting at their apartment which happened a day before they knew that their organisation was at stake, and they were getting heat from both the mob and the cartels, and by extension, the law. A storm was brewing in the distance, giving way to a massive gang-war cum police intervention that would bring the city to its knees and there was no guarantee that Witness Protection was going to protect them.

Marta lifted her glass as Leo began to speak, after taking a deep breath as if he was about to go into confession.

He knew something dirty was going on in the underworld, ever since the sudden murders of several high-profile cartel and mafia leaders ongoing from '82, not to mention an insider source that there appeared to be some sort of restructuring within VCPD caused by external factors.

It was almost as if a certain entity, or organisation most likely, were using every player in Vice as pawns to further their own agendas.

"...Blender DeCavante." Said Leo.

"What about him?" Asked Marta.

"They think it was our hit, those fuckin' guinea bastards."

The goateed man drank up his liquor.

"We worked with the fuckin' guy, brought his organisation to the top when he came down south with nothing, and now those Liberty cabrones think we did him? Bullshit."

"C'mon, baby. It'll blow over soon, everyone's having a tough time right now, after Reagan and the DOA, we can't trust anyone right now." Replied the woman as she rested her palm on Leo's. "We'll just stall a bit, get some air and find a way a round this, make some calls, pay tribune. Ain't that how it's always done?"

"Used to be easier..." Lamented the man.

"People knew their place... Cops, crooks, politicians, cokeheads... They knew their purpose, almost as if there's a code or something everybody abided to. Now the same everybody is walking around pointing fingers at each other, getting each other killed for no good reason, of course the feds are gonna start stepping in. And the worst part is..."

The man scratched his forehead.

"No one knows who really killed them. And now some damn bellboy and a hitman get killed at our place right after Rust pops by? This ain't the kind of world that I know and recognise anymore, Marta."

Leo's expression was gloomy, almost in a state of despair. Marta knew that beneath the hard man exterior concealed a very broken individual, unable to comprehend a once-lucrative environment that was now rapidly changing not for the better. Leo had too much on his plate and was making more enemies than he could count.

Maybe it was about time to let it all go.

"...If things are a little too much for us, we could always turn states like what Rust said."

"No."

"Relocate, start afresh, live the rest of our lives in America quietly."

"No. Fuck that."

"Please, Leo. Just reconsider-"

Abruptly, the man slammed his glass on the table, getting reactions from the other patrons in the bar as Marta continued to stare at him coldly.

"I arrived on the boat here from Havana dirt poor in '79, before anyone else did, I've worked almost ten years, paving the road to success with the blood and sweat of men that I've worked with or killed to finally get to where I am. I did not come this far just to see it all go."

Leo's sense of pride was coming back to him, and Marta did not want that to be his undoing.

"That was until we crossed a line, Leo." Snapped Marta, leaning forward.

"This business is dying, and it's killing us both. Like you said, there's too much bloodshed and mistrust right now and sooner or later we're gonna end up in the can or underwater tied to a cinderblock. That golden age you speak of is long dead. For god's sake, think about our kid, Leo! We both know we don't want him or her to get wrapped up in this life."

Leo paused to look out of the window as Marta continued.

"This ain't Cuba anymore, Leo. America's the land of opportunity, put all that old guerilla shit in the past where it belongs, and move on to the next stage of our lives."

"By living on some government property in Buttfuck, San Andreas."

"...All I'm saying is, is this the right way to live? Or do we have to change with the times?"

Somehow with enough thought and rationality, it struck Leo that the lady was right. They needed to change the formula, the narrative, even if that meant losing their wealth, if they wanted to keep their heads above water.

And then he remembered about their unborn child. Upon hearing the news of the pregnancy he knew that the joy he felt was genuine, almost as if in spite of all the wrong he did, it was a second chance at a legitimate life for him.

"...We still don't know the gender?"

"Not enough to tell."

Marta placed the glass on the table and began to feel her stomach again, as Leo spoke.

"Do me a favor, Marta. If anything happens to me, then for the love of Jesus, please don't name this kid of ours any of those strange gringo names, like Seymour or anything like that."

"Of all the things in the world, you're concerned about names now?" Laughed the woman.

"I'm serious, Marta. Think about it, a wacky name's not gonna do us, or the kid, any justice. Go for modesty and inconspicuousness. Maybe something Biblical like Paul or Sam or Ruth if it's a girl."

As Leo cycled through the names Marta soon remembered a certain individual the couple knew in passing. A rogue yet humorous member of a then-partnering drug cartel, this man, while absolutely not a Saint in any way, was responsible for handling the green cards of the two criminals and giving them both an outlet to acquire a piece of the city in exchange for nothing, before meeting his untimely demise at the hands of an unknown hitman at around '85.

Both of them owed a debt to this man, and to this day, the prospect of repaying it seemed at all unfeasible.

"...Do you remember Javier Ortega?"

"J? Robin fuckin' hood? Of course I do." Said the blond, looking away once again. "Good man, had no family. One of those real-hard-to-come-by types. Shame he had to go the way he did, we could have given him something. Funny guy too."

"Thinking what I'm thinking?"

Their eyes met again as Leo finally got around her idea of a name for their kid.

"You're not serious, aren't you?" Frowned Leo. "It's like naming our kid Jack Howitzer."

Finishing up the White Russian Marta lightly tapped the table and smiled.

"Looks like that settles it."

* * *

 _Later, at the Drug Observation Agency Building, Downtown Vice City._

"Here's that cuppa joe you wanted, Fletcher. No sugar, no milk. Just pitch goddamn black." Said Agent Kurt Roswell with a wry smile as he watched his desk partner go through a stack of folders sent in from VCPD Homicide division through dubious means, by his request.

The clutter of indecipherable chit-chat and the sound of fax machines going off went on non-stop since eight in the morning and strangely enough this gave Rust enough of a distraction to research the files.

He was known around the agency as a lazy man, preferring to let the cases solve themselves, so this was a complete out-of-character moment for him.

It came to his senses that he knew something funky was going on at the Atlantis Apartments yesterday and with the Blender DeCavante case and while it might have been drug-related, he knew something else was going on, yet he was unsure how the events played out.

Given the mysterious circumstances of recent strings of drug-related murders Rust feared a drug war on the mainland twisted by manipulation may be underway.

As Rust continued pondering his train of thought was soon briefly interrupted.

"You owe me two beers. Had to suck the VC assistant chief's dick to get those." Snarked Roswell, drinking his coffee.

"It better be the suck of the century, 'cause you just saved plenty o' lives." Said Rust as he went through the files, cross-checking it with the drug manifestos on his table. "Cops don't do shit in this town. You goin' to the DOA ball on Friday?"

"What ball?"

"The one at the Rio Grande Foundation building East Downtown at 7.30 in the evening. They're celebratin' the big coke seizure at Escobar International."

Roswell quickly copped a seat as Rust leaned back, reclining against his chair as he looked through the homicides, sipping his cup at regular intervals.

"No can do, chief. Gotta fly back to Liberty."

"For what?"

"I'm taking leave. Juliette's graduating from college, you know how it is. Dealing with the job and family ain't easy, Rust."

"Well I got a family that ain't mine I gotta deal with, Kurt." Said Rust, flipping through the papers. "Real cartel cut-off-your-face-with-a-chainsaw types, askin' for witness protection. I don't like 'em, sure as hell wish to see 'em suffer for all eternity, but I gotta do my job. You and I both are on the same boat."

"Goddamn drug dealers, man." Sighed Roswell. "First they try and pay you off, pull that _plata o plomo_ BS on you, and then a minute later they come back, on their knees, begging you to cut a deal with them. Fuck, I ain't gonna miss this place once I'm done with this job."

"So what you gone do?" Laughed Fletcher.

"Soon as I step foot into Dukes? Shit, I'm gonna give the old lady a hug, get into my car, crank up some _Toto_ or _Fleetwood_ on the stereo with my arm around her and drive to the dive bar between 22nd and Olive to get shitfaced together like we always do."

"Whatever, pardner. Tell Virginia I said hi and to come by Vice if she ever wants some good ol' fashioned Southern hospitality."

"Oh, eat shit, Rust."

The white, boxy phone vandalised with suggestive graffiti on the table sounded off as Roswell quickly stood and answered it while Fletcher selected a group of case files and placed them neatly against the right side of his desk.

The numbers on the manifest appeared to be irregular in nature with regards to these files, which included the DeCavante murder, almost as if the drugs were planted by another entity, possibly one of their own.

"Director wants me at the white room, make as many copies as you want, but don't let nobody catch you with those files. There's not enough grease left for the frying pan he's gonna fry my balls on."

"You have my word, brother, and thanks for the coffee." Said Rust. "Now get the fuck outta here man, I got work to do."

As he heard the door slam Rust quickly scrambled together the folders and inspected them carefully, starting with DeCavante.

A high-ranking and well-regarded soldier of the Lupisella crime family operating out of Little Italy in Algonquin, Liberty City, The Blender got his name from cutting up the bodies of his hits and throwing the parts into a woodchipper. After doing a 10-year stint for first-degree murder he was sent to Vice by Don Belco Lupisella to scout the city for opportunity.

With support from avenues such as real estate tycoon Nelson Keyes and the Perdido cartel run by yours truly Leo Juarez and Marta Blanca, he rised to the top of the game just as soon as he was tortured and killed with a sports car radiator one night after visiting the Malibu Club in Vice Point.

Murder suspect is believed to be a sicario working for Perdido, and despite claims supported by phone taps that DeCavante was not in good terms with the Lupisellas, this permanently strained ties with the cartel and both parties are on the verge of a gang war.

At least that was the official story concocted by the department.

As Rust dug deeper he soon realised that the witness accounts and the drugs found at the scene were contradictory in relation to it.

The crime scene indicated that the 1981 _Banshee_ found on the scene contained far more cocaine than previously thought, at almost 300 keys compared to the 75 in the papers, not to mention that the vehicle, after running the plates, was registered to one Detective Errol Pascal, a member of the Vice Squad who coincidentally was killed in a gang shootout just two days before near the swamps on the outskirts of the city.

Not to mention the witness reports, where one individual explicitly stated that DeCavante was said to have left the club with what could possibly be an escort of some sort on his way to his vehicle, while unknowingly making a detour to his eventual scene of murder.

There was even surveillance footage inside the folder to back that statement up.

Drinking up his coffee, Rust flipped through the stills, analysing the faces carefully. Honey pots are no doubt an old tactic. A classic tactic where a beautiful woman coaxes a man with her looks to a quiet alleyway to receive a lead sandwich, is especially normal in this business.

A simple agent might think that the cartel wanted a bigger cut and DeCavante wasn't gonna let them have it, and because of that, tried going for a piss poor frame-up where they get one of Vice City's finest to make it look like a cop slash cartel torturer scenario where said rogue cop fries the mafioso up like a battered chicken leg.

That story somehow seemed plausible enough until Rust saw the face of the escort in one of the stills.

"Shit on a damn shingle..."

Rust remembered the woman at the Atlantis Apartments and the conversation they had in the elevator. Something about the human condition and people problems.

There was something off with that woman, an otherworldly presence he could not grasp. Her fixation on the television, her odd platinum blonde hair and her general, eeriely calm manner of speaking.

Still, he needed more proof.

Opening the case files for the murders of Silencio Cartel enforcer Enrique Verona, Commando Rouge lieutenant Andrew 'Zombie' LaFey, "The Unidsputed King Of Trucking" Terry McIntyre and corrupt FIB agent Nathan Samwell among others, all which took place between '87 to '88, he had access to more photographs and surveillance footage, which in one way or the other, featured the woman in the still, either as part of the crowd or in a single photograph.

"Well shit, that's her alright..."

Snatching up the phone, Rust dialled the number of his contact at VCPD and turned on the fax, running a high frequency drone sound as the gears began to take off. Placing the stills against the scanner he directed the prints to the other side of town as a voice sparked from the receiver.

"Hey Lorna, it's Agent Rustin Fletcher from DOA, badge 52002. I'm gone need a APB on a Caucasian female, brown eyes, platinum blonde hair, 'bout five foot nine to ten, slender build, possibly in the Flamenco/Upper Downtown area."

" _What's it about, Agent Fletcher?_ "

"I believe the individual's a key suspect involved in a string of homicides datin' back to May 1987. I just faxed over some stills, you should take a look."

" _...I'll get back to you once I get word._ "

"Sure, thanks..."

Slamming the receiver Rust quickly sat and loosened his tie, unbuttoning his collar to let the sweat out. He crossed his arms and leaned back, staring at the empty coffee cup for a while as he thought about the revelation.

 _Should have booked her when I had the chance._ He regretted.

He knew that something bad was going to happen in the city soon and he had to live with the fact he could have stopped it as the agent winced his eyes, grumbling at his own ineptitude at the job.

After a moment of self-reflection the phone on the table rang again, this time an unknown phone number not from the building.

The agent picked it up, and a wave of static passed through his ears, making his hair stand.

"Hello?"

 _"Mr. DOA, we cross paths once again. How's your case going? The coffee any good where you work?"_

Rust raised his eyes in disbelief. There was no way in hell someone could contact the DOA building without first making a reservation or getting to the front desk, let alone from a civilian line. More importantly, however, was that he recognised the voice.

Fighting off his sense of fear as he was trained to do, Rust quickly composed himself and got straight to the point.

"...How did you get this number?"

 _"Does it matter? What matters is that you got close. Not many have entered the lion's den unguarded and come out fully intact."_

"So you's sayin' I'm in luck, you goddamned psycho bitch?"

 _"Not as lucky as your partner, skip. I know he's leaving town, and I think that it's best that we keep it that way. I'm afraid I can't say the same about you, Agent Fletcher."_

"When I'm done with you..."

 _"I also know you're sending a couple of cartel leaders off someplace with new identities. Where's that? San Andreas, Carcer City, Alderney? Lovely places I might add, and trust me, I've travelled plenty. Maybe I should pay them a visit once this whole charade rolls over."_

"...They're gonna lock you up and throw away the fuckin' key, I'll make sure of that."

 _"You're still not getting it, aren't you? You just labelled yourself as a problem now, you're just too stupid to see it. My suggestion is...was, before you screwed up that is, to just keep going with the case, see where the paper trail leads to, get yourself a big fat promotion and forget that this conversation even existed, if it even did."_

"Or how about this, doll? You keep talkin', tell me where exactly you are and I'll be there to roll the red carpet and get your ass on a direct flight to a max-security state pen in Arizona, on more than ten counts of first-degree murder, torture and felony conspiracy. You'd be lucky as treated shit if you get life, to be quite honest. For starts, just give me your name. Hell, tell me which payphone you're callin' from and I'll make it quick."

The agent heard a snicker from the other end of the line.

"The fuck you're laughin' for?"

 _"It's just strange, really. Laughter, talking, silence. It's all just a combination of soundwaves of varying frequencies and tones, which in truth, is what it is."_

"What's your point?"

 _"I'm just in your head, is all I'm saying. An imaginary vocal representation of who you believe to be the perpetrator of the case you're after. You're not saving anyone in this city, Agent Fletcher. The fact is you're doing the opposite, and when the hordes of units arrive, millions of you will unknowingly perish and respawn ad infinitum. What you wish is what you get. There will no prior notice to your demise. Goodbye."_

Rust star 69ed the number numerous times, to no avail, mostly leading to the customer service hotline of the Athena 200 offices or Sprunk. A killer was at large, and he had no way of stopping it. He knew that it was no longer safe in Vice anymore and he had to get Leo and Marta out of town asap.

In a fit of worry and anger the agent threw his mug against the plaster wall, ceramic shards dispersing arbitrarily and crumbling a small part of of the wall.

This time, yet another phone call sounded from VCPD with regards to the APB.

The man took the call as soon as it rang.

"So? Did you run the gamut on this broad yet?"

 _"Agent Fletcher... Lorna here. You faxed over an invoice for plumbing bills, are you sure you got the right documents?"_

* * *

 _Meanwhile_ _, outside the Rio Grande Foundation Building, Downtown Vice City._

The women returned the receiver back to where it was, picked up the golfing bag on the corner and walked away from the payphone and the clutter of the street and around the back of the building and entered. Passing through a few doors the woman entered the employee's elevator and ascended to the back of the ballroom. Finding vulnerable regions of the room she unzipped the bag and placed improvised, palm-sized explosive devices in strategic and hard-to-detect areas in time for the DOA ball.

Placing the last of the devices the woman picked up the bag and left through the same way she got in, where she encountered a young woman, at least half a head shorter and possibly of Latin American descent. Dressed in a blue cleaners uniform, she carried a bucket and a mop, and wondered if she came early today for a conference, and lost her way.

"No habla español, señorita." Smiled the woman.

"I can speak English, ma'am." Said the employee.

"Of course you do, I'm just curious as to how you'd react to it."

"This area's for employees only."

"Is that so?" The woman pouted.

The woman closed the door behind her, placed her bag down and looked around.

"Looks to me that there's no sign that says that."

"Ma'am, please. If my manager comes back-"

"Your manager, huh? What's his name?"

"Uh..."

The employee began to sweat as she slowly lowered the mop and bucket on the ground, as the woman continued to stare into the windows of her soul.

"Do you even know who you work for?" Smiled the woman. "These are the same band of degenerates that won't blink an eye to exploit you given the chance."

The woman moved closer.

"To be frank, why bother coming to work if you knew all the risks? You're just the easiest piece of meat for the beast who's gone too long without food."

"What?... I..."

"Why volunteer for a job that forces you to cross tepid waters like these?"

Soon the two were just a shoulders' distance away from each other, as the woman towered over the employee, on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

"Please... Do whatever you want, just don't hurt me."

With that, the woman lifted the employee's chin to face her.

"That's what I wanted to hear."

Exiting the building through the back the woman dragged the golfing bag around with both hands and closed the door behind her. She went straight for the dumpster nearby some wooden crates and pulled the cover up.

Ensuring the bag was zipped and with all her strength the woman threw the bag over like a sack of grain. Closing the dumpster shut she went straight for the black _T_ _orero_ parked upfront in the corner as she watched a dump truck move across the driveway, adjusting her navy-black suit, swiping her hair and clearing the dust on her.

Entering the vehicle a _Patrice Rushen_ song sparked to life as the _T_ _orero_ reversed and joined the traffic to wherever the woman was heading for.

The set-up was ready, and what mattered now was the execution of events.


End file.
